Heartbeat
by cathedralsinmyheart
Summary: When Stiles is woken in the middle of the night by Scott's wheezing, he realizes just how much he relies on Scott to keep himself together, even when it seems like Scott has nothing left to give.
1. Chapter 1

Stiles' eyes opened to a dark bedroom, the sound of gaspy inhales catching his attention before he could allow the weight of his eyelids to lull him back to sleep. At first he thought that the heavy breathing was coming from himself, a typical mid-night panic attack that had become common since his mother had passed away, but when he rolled over and realized that there was a warm body beside him, he jolted upwards, sitting in a mess of comforter and sheets that was too tight around his legs.

"Scott," Stiles murmured, voice groggy from sleep. "Scott, wake up. You're wheezing in your sleep." His fingers felt for the touch lamp on his nightstand, bulb blinding him as it lit.

"S'okay," Scott said breathlessly, easing himself into a sitting position against the headboard as he cringed at the sudden brightness. "Been up…for a while…like this."

"Where's your inhaler?"

"I don't know…haven't needed it…since the wolf thing." Stiles let his eyes adjust to the light before they focused on Scott hunched forward with his hands gripping his ankles, shoulders lifting quickly with every rapid intake of air, his half-failed attempts to get oxygen through his inflamed airways filling the quiet room.

"How bad is it?" Stiles licked his lips and let them part as he waited for Scott to get enough air to form a response.

"Remember lacrosse camp…during the scrimmage…in the rain?" Scott managed, Stiles immediately remembering the pressure of Scott's weight and arm around his shoulder as he lugged him off of the soggy field and helped him to the health office. Scott had breathed in medicine from a mask for twenty minutes, the familiar sound of the buzzing nebulizer unable to ease Stiles' anxiety as he twiddled his thumbs. _Please let it work_ he thought as his muddy feet tapped worriedly on the clean, white tile.

"I'll be right back," he assured Scott as his feet hit the carpet, heart beating fast within his chest.

"Don't wake your dad," Scott begged, and Stiles paused for a moment before opening the door, lips separated once again as he took in the sight of Scott crumpled over himself, white lacrosse t-shirt and gym shorts making him look small against the dark blue of the queen-sized comforter.

Stiles ripped the medicine cabinet door open when he reached the bathroom and nearly cracked the mirror as it flung backwards and hit the wall. He searched behind bottles of Tylenol and Nyquil for the blue inhaler Scott's mother had given them, an old toothbrush and pack of dental floss falling into the sink with a clatter. Drawers were opened and rummaged through, Stiles' disappointment showing as they slammed loudly against the cabinet frame.

"It's four in the morning. What are you doing?" Stiles' robed father appeared in the doorway, rubbing his face in exhaustion and annoyance. Stiles debated keeping the information about Scott from his father, but his stomach flip-flopped as he remembered Scott's labored breathing and the way his eyes had been wide as he sucked greedily at the mist from the nebulizer mask that day at lacrosse camp.

"Scott's having an attack," he rushed. "I thought maybe there was a spare inhaler in the bathroom, but it's gone and he's getting pretty bad. Mom knew how to-" Stiles stopped himself and looked away from his father for a second before tucking his lips inward and crossing his arms.

"Where's Scott?" his father asked, and even though Stiles wished that Scott wasn't asthmatic, he was glad that there was a pressing issue that needed to be dealt with to downplay the fact that he had brought up the subject of his mother. The two hurried for the bedroom where Scott had moved his way down onto the floor so that he could sit against the mattress and bed frame.

"Hey, buddy," Mr. Stilinski squatted beside Scott to assess his condition, eyebrows forming a V when he realized that this was the worst attack he'd ever seen the kid have. "I don't have any medicine so I'm going to call your mother, okay? Just sit tight." Scott nodded as he continued to fight for air, gasps growing long and deep as his hand rose and fall as it lay against his chest. For a moment, the sound reminded Mr. Stilinski of the fast, forced inhales and exhales that hallmarked the panic attacks his son had started suffering about year and a half ago. He knew that Scott's asthma was something entirely different, but the desire to calm the attack down was overwhelming, almost as if the kid was his own son. As he dialed the McCall house, he couldn't help but dread the nervous voice that would soon be on the other end; no parent, he knew, wanted to receive a phone call so early in the morning.

"Melissa, it's…look, I'm sorry to call so early, but Scott's having trouble breathing and I can't find the spare inhaler you gave us a while back."

Stiles felt his fingers begin to fidget, anxiety rising as he watched his friend struggle to get air into his lungs, entire body tightening with every gasp. He knew that Scott was in trouble, needed that medicine to reach his airways yesterday if he was going to avoid a trip to the emergency room. To keep himself from adding to the situation, he sat next to Scott so that their shoulders were touching and whispered _Keep breathing, man. I need you to keep breathing for me_.

"Do you want me to take him to the emergency room? I mean, he's really working to breathe here." Stiles watched as his father rose and walked a few feet to the left, then the right, a barely noticeable kind of pacing that made Stiles wonder if his father was also nervous, something he wasn't used to seeing. "Okay, I'll see you in a few."

"What did she say? Do we need to go to the ER?"

"She's meeting us there. Help me get Scott down the stairs and into the car." Mr. Stilinski put the phone in its dock on Stile's desk before squatting back down in front of the two boys. "Hang in there, Scott. Just try to breathe as best you can." His voice was low and even, the slight unease he'd shown while on the phone suddenly absent. "That's it, in and out."

"S-she doesn't make him go to the ER unless she's afraid he's-" Stiles felt the hair on his arms raise as he thought about the last time Scott was in the hospital barely a year ago and how Stiles wasn't allowed to see him. And then he remembered the whole lycanthropy deal and thought about how everyone would react if Scott suddenly started changing, which would surely make a giant mess of things. Things like the murders and Derek, and both boys' lives.

"Stiles, look at me," Mr. Stilinski's voice grew serious as he motioned for his son to make eye contact with him. "Relax before I have to ask you to stay behind."

"I'm not leaving Scott!" _They can pry my hands off of the rail on his bed. I'm not letting them take me out of the room this time, _Stiles thought.

"Then I suggest you calm yourself down so that we can get Scott to a doctor." Mr. Stilinski's tone grew serious, even though he knew his son was too far into his panic to back away.

"He's going to be all alone! They're going to make his mother sign paperwork while he goes through it all alone," Stiles whispered as he put his head down on his curled up knees, feeling the rush of adrenaline and the tightening of his muscles that he had come to know quite well.

"Stiles, look at me again. Look at me," Mr. Stilinski ordered, knowing that his son was slipping into the confines of a panic attack, but all Stiles could do was close his eyes and try his best to keep his breathing from matching Scott's. "I need you to help me get Scott to the hospital. We're wasting time here."

"The last time you had an attack," Stiles said nervously as he ignored his father, body beginning to shake, "you were laying on the lacrosse field during that game against Mansville gasping like a fish out of water. I thought…I thought I was going to lose you like I lost… And they wouldn't let me in. They wouldn't let me stay with you. What if…what if I'm not there and-" Stiles couldn't keep his breathing from quickening, his throat suddenly feeling like it was closing.

"Rupert Stilinski!" his father boomed, making Stiles crouch inward. "Snap out of it!"

"Stop yelling at me!" He hated that he couldn't control it, could only think about how much he was letting Scott down as the panic attack began to take over completely, making him look like a five year old in the middle of a temper tantrum.

"Stiles," Scott tried, swallowing between sentences. "You're here now." Though Stiles' heartbeat was rushing in his ears, he had heard the faint voice of his best friend and willed himself as best as possible to focus on the breathy words. He wanted to tell him to stop talking, that it would only make the asthma worse, but part of him wanted Scott to keep reassuring him. "S'okay," Scott gasped, "I'll be okay…because of you." Stiles felt Scott's fingers wrap his on the carpet, a sense of calm radiating from that very spot and filling his body, allowing Stiles to slowly move from the ball he'd rolled into.

"Promise me you won't stop breathing like you did that time in seventh grade, when your dad finally moved out and you were in the hospital for two weeks because they had to put you on a ventilator." Stiles could feel hot tears sliding down his dry cheeks, but he didn't care; the panic attack was subsiding, almost as if the tears were the anxiety being released. "Promise me that you'll buy like, five inhalers and keep two of them on you all the time. And that you'll wake me up the next time you feel like your chest is getting tight in the middle of the night. And-"

"Okay," Stiles' father interrupted quietly, his best shot at taking control of the situation again. "Enough promises. Let's get Scott into the car before he turns blue."

"Okay," Stiles sniffed, panic just a small pit in the middle of his stomach as he squeezed Scott's hand.

"Okay," Mr. Stilinski said before him and his son helped raise Scott to his feet and assisted him down the narrow staircase. They guided him into the backseat where he leaned his head against the windowpane and sucked in as much air as he could from the open window once the car started rolling.

"I shouldn't have let myself panic," Stiles apologized as he sat beside Scott, wanting to place a hand on his friend's back, but knowing that the added pressure would make it harder for him to breathe. So he just looked down at his still-shaking hands and continued. "You needed me and I let myself go _there_. You've never really seen me panic like…anyway…I'm sorry, Scott. I'm so fucking sorry, you don't even know."

"S'okay," Scott managed, breaths shallow as let the cool night air breeze against his face. "Everything's okay."

"No, it's not!" Stiles protested. "I should have had that spare inhaler. I should have woken up earlier." But Scott just shushed him and grabbed Stiles' hand again, Stiles' heartbeat falling into time with that of Scott's. He knew that once the medicine was delivered to his aching chest, he'd be golden, so he closed his eyes and pictured Allison rushing to class just as the bell was ringing, dark curls airborne as she turned to smile and wave. Allison, who didn't even know he was asthmatic. Allison, who would rub the small of his hand with her thumb in the middle of a movie or while the two were holding hands under the table in the lunchroom. He wondered how he could feel so strongly about a girl, wondered if his father ever felt this for his mother, then decided it wasn't worth thinking about. Because Scott was starting to see spots in the distance, despite the fact that his eyes were closed, and even though he was breathing, he didn't _feel_ like he was. No, his lungs were screaming for air, and no matter how hard he tried to grasp at the image of Allison smiling and confused as he handed her a pen the day they met, his asthma just wouldn't let him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Can't breathe." Scott's voice was barely audible by the time his mother arrived at his bedside in the emergency room due to a combination of the nebulizer mask placed over his mouth and nose and the small amount of air able to move through his failing lungs. He had his legs crisscrossed as he leaned over himself, t-shirt off and in a ball behind him exposing his chest muscles pulling tight each time he inhaled. "It hurts," he wheezed, eyes squinting and mouth wide as he grabbed at his chest, making his mother's heart ache as their eyes met.

"I know, baby," Melissa, in wrinkled pajamas and unbrushed hair, nearly cried as she put her hand on his, ignoring the IV a nurse had placed just minutes before so that she could wrap her fingers around his. "This is a bad one, I know." And she did, which was why her eyes grazed over the open chart on the moveable workstation behind her, hand still tight around Scott's as her brain searched the top paper for his blood pressure, heart rate, and the medications that had already been administered.

"I'm really sorry about all of this, Melissa." Mr. Stilinski slid his hands in his pockets as he studied Scott, the exhaustion from working so hard to breathe apparent in the redness that had cast itself across his face.

"I used to go through this at least twice a week when Scott was younger," she sighed, remembering how she'd made him sleep with a baby monitor next to his bed until he was thirteen, any murmur or cough sending her running down the hallway. Scott was often sound asleep as she paused in his doorway, anxiety calming only slightly when she realized he was fine. _For now_, she always thought as her bare feet shuffled over the carpet on her way back to bed.

"My wife…she used to handle this stuff when Scott slept over."

"I'm glad that you called," was all that Melissa could think to say. She knew that things had been hard for Mr. Stilinski and his son recently and was afraid that Scott's attack had made them both revisit emotions that they'd packed away a year and a half ago. "Scott's asthma can get serious pretty quickly."

"How long until he's breathing normally again?" Stiles asked, eyes watching intently as the nurse pulled a clear liquid from a vial into a syringe. The patches and wires on Scott's chest had thrown Stiles into a new level of panic since the nurse had stuck them on ten minutes ago, leaving him extremely aware of the low but fast paced beeping of the heart monitor beside the bed.

"Hopefully ten, fifteen minutes. It's a pretty nasty attack," she answered as she pushed the contents of the syringe into the tube that was part of the line in Scott's hand.

"Your son was very brave," Mr. Stilinski found himself saying to fill the silence that had fallen between everyone. Stiles' head dropped in embarrassment, the fact that he was unable to control his anxiety like Scott had managed despite his impaired breathing making him feel like a complete disappointment in the eyes of his father. "I'm not sure I'd be able to say the same about myself if I was in his shoes."

"Thank you, but I think he's just been through this enough times to keep himself calm." _Unlike the one person who was supposed to help him_ Stiles thought as he let his head drop lower and turn away from everyone. _I'm such a horrible friend_.

"His pulse ox is coming up already," the nurse smiled as she wrote down the numbers that had appeared in red on the clip over Scott's pointer finger. Melissa half-smiled back, knowing from past experience that they weren't out of the woods just yet, especially since Scott's eyes were closed tightly now, breathing just as labored as when she'd first walked in.

"I think his nebulizer's dry," Melissa commented as she pulled the mask and it's strap over Scott's head, hands going for the drawer on the workstation to find the liquid albuterol on autopilot.

"I've got it," the nurse, a woman Melissa barely knew because she always worked a different shift, offered quietly, but Melissa continued to refill the reservoir anyway, finally restrapping the mask onto Scott's face.

"Better?" she asked her son, who nodded gently as he slowly made his way to lean against the inclined back of the bed, muscles in his neck and chest finally beginning to relax from the epinephrine injection. "You look a little better," she smiled, hand grabbing for Scott's and squeezing it lightly, eyes reading the pulse ox monitor, which read 95 and then 96. "I'm going to go talk to the doctor and get some paperwork done, you sit tight, okay?" Melissa patted Scott's hand, motioning for Mr. Stilinski to follow her. The nurse exited the room to tend to her next patient, leaving Stiles and Scott alone for the first time since everything had started just an hour before.

"You scared the shit out of me," Stiles admitted as he inched closer to Scott's bed, eyes closed so that the tears pricking his eyelids couldn't fall. "Because I thought all of it, the inhalers and the breathing treatments and the panicked trips to the ER…I thought it was something I'd never have to worry about again after you got bitten, but apparently that's not the case." He traced a circle on the white bed sheet with his forefinger, mouth twisting to hold back another set of tears as he swallowed hard and slow. "I used to stay up, when we had sleepovers as kids. You always fell asleep right away, even if we promised each other we'd stay up all night." Stiles chuckled, but it was clear in his glassy eyes and how his voice pulled that he was keeping a sob in his throat. "But I'd be up for hours listening to you breathe, waiting for the hiccup that might start a coughing fit or bout of wheezing. I even," he started, but paused to keep himself from breaking, "I even kept a spare inhaler in my backpack, which is why it wasn't in the medicine cabinet like it should have been. Until three months ago, at least, when I threw it out, which was stupid," he berated himself, lifting his hand into a fist and holding it against his forehead. "I'm so fucking stupid!"

"No, Stiles," Scott pulled the mask down as he shook his head, breathing even and much easier now, so that he could stop his best friend from feeling so guilty. "This is not your fault."

"I let my guard down because I thought you didn't need me anymore, because it seemed like you were doing so much better without me always…always…" Stiles mumbled through tears as they finally flowed over his lips, unable to finish.

"_You_ are the reason I'm here, breathing, right now." Scott took a few quick breaths from the mask, following with, "What if I had been at home, alone? What if I hadn't had you there to wake me up?" Stiles lowered his fist, but Scott knew he'd have to do better if he was going to calm his friend down enough to get him to stop the guilt trip his was forcing upon himself. "I wouldn't have realized I was getting sick until it was too late, when I wouldn't have had the air to call for my mom. You know," Scott paused before continuing, "how my asthma is at night, how I sleep through the beginning of an attack." His throat tightened a little at the thought and he pulled the mask back into place, taking in the white, misty medicine to relax his tired airways. "Tonight was all you," Scott managed.

"I don't know what happened," Stiles continued to sob. "You haven't so much as wheezed in three months and now you're here, fighting to breathe. I must have done something wrong. Maybe there were peanuts in the cookies I bought; I should have checked the label. Or …or when I was scooping ice cream from the Neapolitan tub maybe I scraped some of the strawberry-"

"Stiles," Scott interrupted, pulling the mask down again while his friend bit his lip. "I've been eating peanut butter and strawberries for months now. It wasn't that. This isn't your fault!"

"Aren't you wondering _why_?"

"No, not really."

"Well I am! Because you've been unstoppable since the night we went searching for the second half of that body; you run the entire length of a lacrosse field for ten minutes without getting tired, you can _heal_, for goodness sakes. So why this, why now? While you were sleeping?" Stiles' tears slowed, his feet starting to pace a three-foot section of the room as his attention shifted from emotions to facts. "It doesn't make sense."

"I don't know," Scott sighed, exhaustion filling his body despite the amount of medicine in his system, "but I've had asthma my entire life and I'm kind of okay with it."

"Are you getting a cold? Maybe your wolfiness is wearing off, or you've developed a new allergy-"

"Or maybe I just have asthma and you're making it worse by getting all worked up!"

"Look, Scott," Stiles sighed and came right up to his side, face finally showing less signs of his outburst as the tears dried. "Something is going on here and it's my job to figure it out. That's what I do: Put the pieces together and figure shit out, especially stuff related to you, which affects me, by the way. It affects me so much that I full-on panic when I realize that one day you might not be standing next to me because your airways can decide to close and fill with mucous whenever your immune system decides to overreact."

"Can we do this tomorrow? It's after four in the morning, and now that my lungs aren't acting like they're running a marathon, I'm wiped."

Stiles nodded and shifted his attention to the monitor, beeping low and even, which made him feel better about putting off the conversation with Scott for a while.

"How're you feeling?" Melissa asked as she reentered the room with Mr. Stilinski and a doctor in tow, noting that Scott was no longer using the nebulizer, which she saw had gone dry again.

"Exhausted, but much better." He smiled, eyes drooping.

"You guys can go home as soon as your pulse ox stays stable and your wheezing clears up." Dr. Channery, a doctor that Scott had seen many times before in the ER, smiled, pulling the stethoscope from around his neck and putting the buds in his ears. Scott sat up and let the doctor listen. "Still wheezing a bit. What was his last pulse ox reading?"

"96," Melissa said.

"It's stayed, but I want it higher," the doctor frowned, placing his equipment back around his neck. "Scott, I'm putting you on oxygen. Tube under your nose and around your ears, you know the routine."

"Sounds good to me." Scott, ready to slip into a deep slumber, leaned back to relax as Dr. Channery secured a nasal cannula under the boy's nose and around his ears, attaching it to a connection in the wall. He waved to Melissa and headed for the hallway after adding information to the chart and clicking his pen closed.

"I think that's our cue to leave," Mr. Stilinski nodded to Stiles once the room was silent except for Scott's breathing and the monitor beside his bed.

"Can't we stay until they know for sure?" The anxiety was back, climbing up Stiles' throat and threatening to well up in his tear ducts.

"I think everyone here could use some sleep. Scott's okay for now, and-" Mr. Stilinski tried, but his son would not let him finish.

"For now. Okay for _now_. But you heard what the-"

"It's time to go home, son. If Scott's still here tomorrow, you can visit. I have to be at work in two hours and I only had three full hours of sleep."

"But I don't want-"

"Mom," Scott whimpered, eyes suddenly fluttering open, heart rate rising just enough on the monitor to make Stiles' stomach turn. "My chest," he struggled, sitting up again, hunching as his inhales caught in his throat.

"Just take deep breaths, the oxygen will help your body compensate." Melissa's hand was on Scott's back immediately, her voice calm as she coached him. "It'll pass, just relax."

"No," he shook his head as his breaths quickened. "No."

"Scott, baby," Melissa's voice grew softer as she glared at the monitors and then to the pulse ox clip, realizing that this was more anxiety than asthma. "You can beat this. The epinephrine is already in your system. In and out, just like we always used to practice." Scott let his head fall, fingers rubbing the clear oxygen tubing hanging in front of him for comfort. His breaths slowed a bit, monitors relaying this to the rest of the room. "There you go, just like that. It's only a panic attack."

"Call me if you need to, Melissa," Mr. Stilinski offered as he grabbed a hold of his son's shirt and slowly pulled him towards the door.

"Thank you, for everything. I'll let you know how he's doing in the morning."

"Hang in there, Scott," Stiles added as he was whisked out of the room, sneakers squeaking from resisting his father's pull.

"I'm afraid to go to sleep," Scott whispered to his mother, even though they were the only two in the room. She sat on the edge of his bed, hand going to her son's forehead to push the hair from his eyes.

"I'll be here in case it starts up again."

"Stiles had to wake me up this time. I knew it was happening, but I couldn't come out of my dream. It was like I was drowning…I couldn't get to the surface…"

"Don't worry about that right now, Scott. Tomorrow is another day. Just close your eyes." And the fatigue of the last hour and a half took over, his eyes closing at his mother's command, mouth opening slightly as he turned his head to rest on the pillow where his mind slowed and he dreamt of Stiles pushing him up from the bottom of the ocean, Scott's head breaking the surface time and time again, air reaching as far as his fingertips with each easy inhale.


	3. Chapter 3

The clatter of pills being shaken against their bottle caused Stiles' eyes to half-open as the pink of sunrise fighting the dark filled his room. "I don't want you to skip this today," his father instructed, voice groggy as he placed his son's Adderall on the nightstand.

"Did you hear anything about Scott?" Stiles' body shot up in the bed, torso burrowed in the comforter as his struggled against the tightness of the sheets around his thighs.

"They're discharging him sometime this morning. Melissa texted me about an hour ago." Mr. Stilinski rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, thankful that his son's room was mostly dark; he hadn't slept well despite the exhaustion weighing his body down. Each time he'd tried to close his eyes the image of Scott looking lifeless in the rearview mirror, head resting against the windowpane as he worked to get air into his lungs, would make his heart beat fast, anxiety of whether or not the kid would be okay still with him as he poured his second cup of coffee this morning.

"So…" Stiles let the word hover in the air between them as his father sighed.

"So that means that you let Scott rest while you get started on your homework. Don't you have a history project due this week?"

"Doesn't Scott's mom have work?"

"She took off today," his father said as he took his phone from his pocket, eyes squinting at the caller ID on the screen, adding, "So let them be. Everyone just needs decent sleep right now" before disappearing down the hallway. Stiles scrambled for the cell phone that should have been on his nightstand, but wasn't. The details of the night before, the time between leaving the hospital and waking up, were mysteriously missing from his memory.

_How did I let myself fall asleep? What if Scott texted or called me?_ He pulled the tangle of covers from around his legs, knowing he must have moved a lot in his sleep by how tight the cotton was gripping his ankles. The hard plastic rectangle he landed on while sliding across the mattress alerted him to the fact that he'd slept with his phone, which was probably in his hand at some point, but was now buried. A quick check of the backlit screen told him that he had no messages or missed calls, and the worry that had returned the moment Stiles had woken climbed from his stomach to his throat when he realized that Scott never texted him the usual _I'm okay_.

Even though it was only seven in the morning, Stiles knew he wouldn't even be able to will his feet onto the carpet until he heard Scott's voice, even if it was just a whisper, on the other end of his phone.

It took Stiles less than three seconds to realize why the chorus of Blink 182's "Kaleidoscope" was coming from beneath the pillow next to him. He let the chorus play, lips syncing along countless times as a means of calming his anxiety before he ended the call, grabbed his pills, and let his feet sink into the hunter green carpet, mind much too busy to even think about sleep.

_It's the first time that I'm worried,  
of a bad dream, of a journey  
on the highway, through the valley,  
it's a long road through the night.  
It's a long road to get it right.__  
_


	4. Chapter 4

Melissa McCall had a dishtowel and plate in her hands when she heard the front door creak open, head turning to see Stiles peeking his head through the small crack he had created in the doorway. She smiled and welcomed him inside, the distinct spiciness of McCall Saturday night spaghetti sauce filling Stiles' nose as she mentioned that Scott was in his room doing a treatment if he wanted to go on up.

Stiles waved his hand and took the steps two at a time, ready to play some Halo and watch B-rated horror movies on Netflix. But as Stiles reached Scott's room, he found that his friend was fast asleep, nebulizer mask on and misting. It looked as though he'd slipped carefully into his bed, comforter barely moved from its made position in the process. Stiles tiptoed in with his mouth open and shrugged his backpack off as he made his way towards Scott's desk, thumb scrolling over the text that Mr. Stilinski had sent him fifteen minutes ago granting him permission to see his best friend.

He thought about sitting and watching Scott to qualm the anxiety brimming his throat again, but knew that his friend was breathing evenly by the way the mask was fogging up with every exhale; the treatment was only a preventative one, the same kind that Scott used to do every day after school since Kindergarten. So he logged into Scott's computer and ended up on Tumblr as a distraction, barely making it through five scrolls before he heard Scott's raspy voice calling him. Rolling the computer chair across the room with his feet, Stiles appeared at Scott's bedside, lips parted and half smiling when he realized Scott wasn't in trouble.

"I was so worried about you, man. I mean, I'm still worried about you, actually, but I think you know that because I'm here," Stiles rambled. "Though I'm also here because we always play, like, a million games of Halo together when you're home sick, and I wanted to make sure you didn't get bored or whatever, but then I saw you were passed out and I was afraid to wake you so I was on Tumblr for a bit until you just summoned me from across the room. Also, I think your mom is making spaghetti downstairs, so I'm probably going to stay for dinner. But only if she makes Texas Toast, too."

"You take your Adderall today?" Scott laughed as he held the mask an inch off of his face, sleep still present in his lagging eyelids.

"What, am I not allowed to be excited that my best friend is okay after he nearly stopped breathing last night?!" Stiles pretended to be hurt, but it only made Scott's smile widen beneath his mask and liven up his eyes.

"How'd you know my computer password?"

"Is that a serious question, dude?" Stiles took his first deep breath since he turned on the lamp in his bedroom nearly 12 hours ago, genuine smile appearing as he grew more certain that Scott was going to be okay.

"Actually, yeah." Scott shifted against the pillows and relaxed into a new rhythm of breathing, smile still present as he adjusted the mask on his face and let his eyes lag again.

"How about I do all of the talking and you focus on getting better," Stiles offered, tone lightening as he leaned over the chair and folded his hands on his knees. "Since we still don't know why you're even asthmatic anymore in the first place."

"Stop worrying," Scott whined. Stiles began to take notice of the wheeze at the tail of each breath, the way Scott's whole body seemed to be trying to breathe against the bed.

"Heh," Stiles chuckled and looked down. "Yeah, that's not going to happen."

"I'mfine," was rushed together.

"So fine that you're getting out of breath while doing a breathing treatment. No more talking." Stiles wagged his finger at Scott. "Mama McCall won't let me stay for dinner if my visit sends you into some kind of aftershock."

"Aftershock?"

"You know what I mean." Stiles got up from the chair and dug through his backpack. "Anyway, you left your phone in my bed and-"

"Did Allison text me?"

"If you're not going to stop talking, Scott, I'm going to get your mom. And I want my Texas-"

"Okay, okay," Scott agreed as Stiles handed the phone over and sat down. His eyes scanned the thread of messages Allison had sent. "She's worried because I haven't responded all day. What should I tell her?"

"Did I not just ask you to stop talking?" Stiles scolded before adding, "Wait, she doesn't know about your asthma?" Scott shook his head, scrolled through the rest of his messages, and showed Stiles Derek's group MMS about a pack meeting tonight, which Stiles had received around noon but forgotten about. "Well, you can either tell Allison and Derek the truth, or you can lie," to which Scott rolled his eyes. "And there's no way your mom is going to let you leave the house like this, so I don't know how we're going to gather any kind of meeting."

"Hey guys," Melissa announced as she entered the room and sat on the side of Scott's bed. "Looks like you're all done, Scott. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he coughed as he unstrapped the mask from his face and shut the machine off.

"You look far from fine. And that wheeze doesn't sound like it's going away any time soon," she frowned as she felt her son's forehead. "No fever. Your peak flow was pretty good before your treatment, so I think we're in the clear. Guess we'll just have to keep an eye on it. I wish we knew why you were feeling so crappy." Melissa sighed. "Well, I've got dinner downstairs. Do you want me to bring it up?"

"Nah, I need to get out of this bed anyway," Scott said as he emerged from beneath the perfectly folded covers, unaware that Stiles had his arms up behind him in case he started listing. "I wanna go to school tomorrow."

"I don't know about that," Melissa warned as she watched her son shuffle towards the hallway.

"I have a huge history project that's due and a chemistry lab coming up that I'm not supposed to miss. I kind of have to go."

"Since when do you want to go to school?" Melissa stopped as they crowded in the hallway and put her hands on her hips.

"Since Allison," Stiles murmured, first one to head down the stairwell as the two McCalls glared at each other, Melissa's more a smile than Scott's. "Uh, guys, Texas Toast?" He pointed down and towards the direction of the kitchen, stomach growling loudly.

"Who invited you for dinner? And who said that I made Texas Toast?" Ms. McCall asked, the three laughing together for the first time in at least twelve hours as they descended the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles came home to his father still in uniform sitting at the kitchen table, head in hands, glass beside him tinted by whiskey. He paused for a moment in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, weight shifting from foot to foot as he decided whether or not to say something.

"You get your anxiety from me," his father finally spoke without moving. Stiles licked his lips and stood where he was, unable to tell yet whether his father had had enough to drink or not. "And I yelled at you last night because I knew where you had ended up, and I knew that Scott was really sick. So I had to choose. Between you two."

Stiles let his backpack drop slowly onto the tile before sliding into the only seat left across from his father. "It's okay, Dad," he assured him, voice barely audible. "I would have done the same. Scott was really sick and I needed to be pulled out of it." Both of his feet jiggled beneath the small wooden table, hands clasped together as he concentrated on them.

"I know I don't usually look anxious, but it eats me up on the inside. Every day. All day," Mr. Stilinski looked up at his son and the two made eye contact. "I never wanted that for you. I thought maybe it'd skip you somehow, that your hyperactivity would take over instead." Stiles found that he had to look away as the tears pooled, nearly falling but not. He didn't want to have this conversation, not now. Not ever, really, and he couldn't help but try to calculate how many drinks his father had had by now, how many hours his father had been up consecutively.

"And then I found you sitting on the stairs of the church the morning of your mother's funeral with your tie loose and chest heaving, and I knew what that look in your eyes meant," Mr. Stilinski choked back a sob and grabbed his drink, sipping it with pursed lips to keep him from letting another sob slip. "And every time you woke up screaming or I found you curled up on the bathroom floor stuck in the middle of some unknowable terror, my heart broke. It still breaks to see you like that. It would break your mother's heart, too, if she knew." His father's voice grew lower as he went on, reaching its lowest point with, "I-I just miss her so much."

"Dad," Stiles tried as his hand started to slide across the table, but his father was too busy talking again, arms moving wildly as warm tears finally slid down the teen's face and collected at his closed lips.

"Last night…I started to wonder if maybe the anxiety had been there all along, hiding beneath the hyperactivity, waiting. Because on the drive to the hospital I remembered the first time I'd ever seen Scott have an attack at that soccer tournament in Huntington Beach when you guys were ten. You had half of him on your shoulder while you walked him to the bench. Melissa and I were rushing through the crowd to get to you guys."

Stiles remembered how the game kept on going, the attack not that bad but about to get there. How Scott could still talk, just a little, enough to say, "I'mokay" repeatedly even though he really wasn't. The assistant coach was there, but Stiles knew more about what to do than he ever had.

"I gave him his medicine," Stiles added, surprised that he'd jumped into the conversation. He could almost feel the pale blue inhaler that he'd brought to Scott's lips in his hand, the other holding his friend's head tilted slightly upward. "Breathe in on three," he'd instructed as he counted and pressed down on the canister, expertly adding, "Hold it, hold it, hold it," until Scott couldn't any longer. He shook the piece of plastic furiously until he was sure its contents had mixed. "Again," Stiles commanded, but Scott shook his head and let his chin hit his chest, breaths still small spurts of inhalation. "Come on, man. One more puff. It's gonna be okay. I promise it's gonna be okay."

"You were crying, but I wasn't sure if you knew, because you just kept feeding him instructions and the medicine and Melissa and I just let you go. She must have known that everything you were doing would be enough; I was so focused on the anxiety in your voice and had no idea what to do. I see some crazy things in my line of work and I still had no idea what to do. And I wasn't half as worried about Scott that day, because he started breathing easier and all. But you were really quiet on the car ride home, wouldn't eat dinner. It was just after your mother got sick the first time, and I figured maybe you were just dealing with a lot so I let you be. And while I was up late finishing paperwork I heard you calling for Scott in your sleep. You probably don't even remember." His father picked his glass up and shook the whiskey around before taking a long enough sip to finish it off.

"I do," Stiles admitted as his father lowered the glass on the wood of the table. "It felt like I had a pile of bricks on my chest and I was thinking _this is what Scott must feel like_, but I was still half asleep and I couldn't fully wake up. You put me in the bathtub and started a cold shower."

"I was so afraid that the panic attacks were starting. I didn't want that for you, so I threw you in clothes and all. Your mother was at Aunt Jane's for the weekend. I never told her because I knew she was watching for it, too. I kept thinking that it would happen again. And it did, but not until after." Mr. Stilinski reached for the Jack Daniels bottle on the counter behind him and unscrewed the cap.

"I'm okay, Dad. You don't need to worry about me so much." There was the sound of liquid filling the volume of a glass, the scrape of the bottle sliding back across the granite counter. Stiles let his teeth grind together, the clench of his jaw so tight he felt a headache brimming. And that was it. Stiles decided he couldn't look at his father because he was sure he wouldn't be able to change his mind, couldn't form the right words on his lips to somehow make his father's anxiety over his well-being stop. Because every drink, every late night at the station, every doctor's appointment ending with a new heart medication: It was all Stiles' fault, always had been and forever would be.

"Look, Stiles. I know you can take care of yourself. Hell, you take care of me half the time. But I'm worried about you," his father droned, and Stiles imagined his father pointing at him just like he had during that awful vision at Lydia's party. He kept his jaw tight and tapped his feet faster beneath the table. "We barely talk anymore and I always feel like there's something going on that you're not telling me."

Stiles couldn't help but lift his head at that, the guilt in his movement too obvious for his father not to notice. There was no longer the sound of his feet tapping energetically on the tile. His lips parted slightly as if he was actually going to respond, give some kind of excuse that would make up for everything, but nothing came out.

"I'm just so tired," his father admitted before he downed the whole cup of whiskey without so much as a grimace, palms landing flat on the table as he attempted to lift himself from his chair. "I'm just so _tired_." And Stiles could hear it in the way his father was sighing lightly, anger absent, energy gone. So he did the only thing he could think of: Stood behind him as he slowly climbed the stairs, hands up like they had been earlier that day to keep Scott from listing too far, fingers falling down the light switch before he turned and left his father in the dark of his bedroom.


	6. Chapter 6

Derek could sense that someone in the pack was down by the way his head was aching, a throbbing just above the temples that he hadn't felt since the fire. It wasn't nearly as intense; nothing would ever, could never, feel as emotionally and painfully taxing as what he'd experienced that day and years later. But today he could feel it in his chest, too, how it had suddenly gotten just a little harder to breathe when he lay down, a little too easy to climb the stairs and feel slightly faint afterwards.

It was why he'd called the pack meeting in the first place, the gathering more like a round of attendance and status check than anything else. When everyone but Scott and Stiles had responded via text nearly an hour later, Derek knew exactly where the weakness was coming from. What was wrong, though, he wasn't too sure, and it took Derek a good ten minutes to talk himself out of knocking down the front door of the McCall house to find out. A simple phone call, he decided, would be enough, especially since the current wolf drama had died down considerably, and the pack was finally functioning well.

So he dialed and the line rang on and on, reaching Scott's _It's me but I'm not here so I guess you can just leave a message_ that had always driven Derek nuts because of it's Scottness. He redialed three more times before he heard, "Are you always so incessant?" from an irritated Stiles.

"Why are you answering Scott's phone?" came out harshly, each word booming in Stiles' ear. The teen pulled the phone away from his ear and crinkled his face in pain. Scott looked over from his computer chair, eyebrows pulling together as he tried to listen to the conversation.

"Because he's in the shower?" Stiles asked sarcastically. "Can you lower your tone a bit? I'm pretty sure I'm bleeding from the ears here."

"Let me speak to Scott," Derek demanded, paying no attention to Stiles' request.

"That's kind of impossible right now, since water and electronics don't really-"

"I know he's right next to you because I can hear him wheezing through the phone. So either you put Scott on right now, or I'm going to come over there and pry it from your weak, little fingers," Derek growled through clenched teeth, Scott's eyes widening not at his fellow wolf's comment, but at the fact that he had picked up the change in Scott's breathing.

"Okay, okay," Stiles surrendered. "Handing the phone over now."

"Scott, what's going on?" Derek asked, voice booming again once Scott had the phone to his ear.

"I don't know." Scott squinted his eyes as the force in Derek's voice.

"What do you mean _you don't know_?"

"I haven't been able to breathe well since like, two this morning," Scott admitted as he rubbed his chest. "It just came out of nowhere. I took my inhaler and did a bunch of breathing treatments, but nothing's really lasting."

"You shouldn't have asthma anymore; your lungs started healing once you got bitten. And you've been fine for a good three months now."

"I know that, but you just said that you can hear me wheezing. _My mom_ can probably hear me wheezing from downstairs; I sound like a steam train trying to climb a steep hill," Scott explained before an explosive coughing fit took over and he had to pull the phone away for a few seconds as he tried to catch his breath.

"Did Stiles do any research?" Derek asked, still cringing from the dry, hollow sound of Scott's coughs.

"Because there are so many articles about asthmatic werewolves on the internet," Stiles mumbled.

"I heard that!" Derek yelled.

Stiles grabbed the phone from Scott, whose wheezing was louder now than it had been before the phone call. "Dude, could you just calm down for like, a second? Scott isn't feeling well and you're making him anxious." He then swiped Scott's inhaler from his nightstand, whispering, "Hey," as he nudged the plastic device towards Scott, who was still bent over himself.

"He shouldn't be wheezing."

"Well, he is, and I'm pretty sure it's just getting worse because his usual medication isn't doing that great of a job right now." Stiles had the urge to bend down and monitor Scott, but two quick puffs of his friend's inhaler kept him standing, right heel lifting and falling repeatedly on the carpet as his lips pursed in frustration.

"Maybe if I come over and extract some of the pain from him it will help? That's the best thing I can come up with."

"There are only two things that triggered Scott's asthma in the past: Exercise and allergies. Seeing as he's the co-captain of the lacrosse team and can run a mile in under two minutes, I'm going to go with the latter of the-"

"His allergies don't exist anymore," Derek groaned.

"They shouldn't, but what if they did?" Stiles asked.

"What was he even allergic to? Peanuts?"

"And strawberries. Grass and mold. Pollen was a big one. Pets was too, but I guess that's kind of ironic now, seeing as you guys are both-"

"I don't really appreciate your humor right now, Stiles."

"Sorry for trying to lighten the tone here, Derek," Stiles snapped. "It's not like you've ever watched Scott gasp for air before or sat with him in the emergency room at two in the morning because his oxygen levels weren't right." He liked his lips and continued. "I use wit to make overwhelming things less overwhelming, okay? I just…" He sighed and paused, tone lightening. "I just thought that maybe…you know, all of this asthma business was done with, and then last night Scott just woke up unable to breathe, like lungs-searching-for-any-last-remnant-of-air-possible unable to breathe and I kind of lost it."

"Scott was in the hospital last night?"

"This morning, and nothing wolfy happened, so stop freaking out. Look, that's not even the point. Something is wrong here and I think we need to figure it out before something bad happens to Scott." Derek sighed and walked around the foyer of his burnt home, unable to come up with any logical explanation for what was happening. He rubbed his forehead, the drumming in his head increasing enough to make him realize how much pain Scott was truly in.

"How is he right now?" Stiles was surprised to hear Derek's tone become more gentle and even-paced.

"Not as bad as this morning, but not great either. I don't think he'd fare too well at a pack meeting, especially if it took place in your house."

"Did the medicine help at all?" Scott shifted the computer chair so that he could lay his arms on his desk, head finally resting atop them with a heavy sigh; Stiles could only imagine the exhaustion Scott was feeling at the moment. Attacks had always taken a lot out of Scott, but this one was somehow different.

"Yeah, it definitely helped. I just don't think he was expecting this to ever happen again," Stiles said, though he had really been speaking for himself.

"Does Allison know that Scott was in the hospital?"

"She doesn't even know Scott's asthmatic. If he even is anymore."

"But her mother did." Derek's voice was absent as he said this, attention far from his conversation with Stiles.

"How do you know that?"

"Because when I had to rescue Scott the night she tried to kill him with wolfsbane I heard her talking about how everyone would think his death was some kind of major asthma attack. I just remembered that. She knew because she had his school file. I bet she got it from Gerard."

"Okay, so she knew, but now she's not here, so what does that have to do with Allison?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I'm going to find out. I'm calling off the meeting; I don't want the pack going crazy over this just yet. Let's keep it between the three of us."

"What about Allison?"

"Leave that up to Scott," Derek decided. "And Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"If something happens to Scott, you call me immediately. Okay?"

"Noted," Stiles said before the two hung up. "Hey, Scott, you okay man?" He put his arm on his friend's shoulder and shook, Scott lifting his head and inhaling forcefully in response. "Sorry, didn't know you were sleeping. Let me help you back to bed."

"I can do it myself," Scott groaned as he shimmied from Stiles' grip.

"I wasn't implying you couldn't do it, I just wanted to help." Stiles voice was pulling again, just like it had at the hospital when he confessed how worried he'd always been about Scott's asthma.

"I just want to sleep for a very, very long time, and when I wake up I want my asthma to be gone forever," Scott explained as he slid beneath his covers and made himself comfortable.

"I know. I wish that too," Stiles admitted as he turned out Scott's light and went for the door.

"Thanks for always having my back," Scott whispered once Stiles was nearly done closing the door. "I need you, you know. I'm serious."

"It's a two way street, man. I hope you know that. Sleep tight." And he did, but Stiles didn't, because when he pulled his truck in front of the house, he could tell that the kitchen light was the only one left on.

_My father's dangerous when he's drunk_ Stiles had once admitted to Scott during an innocent round of pillow talk over a year ago, the two boys on their sides, backs to each other. _But not like you think, not like…like… _he had continued, Scott finishing with _like my dad?_ And Stiles had felt guilty, because that wasn't what he had been going for at all. _Well, yeah, but I meant he's not abusive. He doesn't throw things or get angry. He just brings things up, painful things that you don't want to stir up, you know?_ Just talking about it made his heart swell, made him grip the blanket a little bit harder.

_He brings up your mother, doesn't he?_ And Stiles just nodded, unwelcome tears falling even though he'd had no indication that they'd been ready to fall in the first place. For a moment, Stiles assumed Scott had begun to doze off, but then he felt an arm sliding over him, a warmth connecting to his back, a whisper against his ear. _It's okay to miss her, Stiles. It's okay to wish she were here right now. You don't always have to be so strong._

_Yes, yes I do_ Stiles had mumbled through wet lips, body shaking in a silent sob.

_No, you don't. I'm not going anywhere, so you can fall apart and I'll be here when you're ready to get put back together._

_I'm…I'm not broken_ Stiles choked out as Scott hugged him tighter. _I can't be broken. My dad, he…he needs me and-_

_Shhh. Just close your eyes and breathe. Think about your favorite memory of her. _

_No _Stiles gasped, air suddenly a commodity he couldn't obtain. _I-I can't_._ I can't breathe. I can't…breathe._ Scott's fingers traveled up and down Stiles' back, evidence of the comfort appearing as the lessening of Stiles' rapid, shaky inhales and the chills that had flooded his body.

_I know it doesn't feel like it, but you are _Scott coaxed as the fingers of his free hand wove between that of Stiles' and squeezed. _You are the strongest person that I know, Stiles. But it's okay to let go sometimes. Let it out. I'm right here._ His fingertips trailed the sweaty cotton of his friend's t-shirt until he couldn't feel his arm anymore, Stiles too caught up in his mother's laugh that day at the beach when the seagulls stole her cup of French fries, gums showing because she was smiling so widely, to even notice.


	7. Chapter 7

"You look like you're freezing," Allison laughed as she reached into her bag for the sweatshirt she'd borrowed from Scott the week before. He rubbed his bare arms and glared at the air conditioner humming two windows ahead of their lab table, eyes squinting as he tried to make out the green digital temperature reading. _64? Really, Mr. Harris? Does it even go any lower?_

"Thanks," Scott smiled as he took it from her and slid his arms through the fleece sleeves, Allison's lavender perfume filling the air around him as his body stopped shivering. _She must have worn it all weekend_, he thought and grinned as he gripped his pencil again.

"You have fifteen minutes left to complete your lab," Mr. Harris announced from the front of the room, feet up on the desk as he bit into an apple.

"Think we have enough time?" Scott asked worriedly as he glanced down the worksheet full of directions that they had not completed yet.

"I did this lab at one of my old schools. If you look closely, each step can actually be combined with one before or after it, so you really only have half of the steps you think you have."

"Cool."

"Your one job is to make sure that beaker doesn't overflow," Allison pointed to the mixture she'd created at the start of the period bubbling over a Bunsen burner in the middle of the table. "Just use the tongs to pull it off if the bubbles reach past that red chalked line. Got it?"

"Yeah, no problem."

"If you can't handle it, let me know now. We could blow up the entire wing of this building."

"Seriously?"

"You're so gullible," Allison laughed as she patted his arm lightly, adding, "and cute with those safety glasses on. I really missed you this weekend."

"Yeah, me too. Stupid migraine." Allison leaned over and snuck a quick kiss on Scott's cheek, their plastic glasses clicking as their faces met. Scott was about to respond with something witty, but the sudden narrowing of his airways threw him off for a moment, and though it was only slight, it was enough to make him tap his pencil furiously while he focused on opening them up enough for the pressure to go away.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just concentrating…on the beaker…"

"Okay," she said, shaking her head to get back into the lab. "Write down the number 42 in the box next to the third question," Allison instructed, and Scott complied without asking _why_, his pencil scratching the paper while he held back a series of coughs. He rubbed the back of his neck out of nervousness, air growing thicker as the period progressed. It became harder for Scott to keep the tickle in his throat at bay though, and a deep, chesty coughing fit finally let loose just as the warning bell wailed.

"Time to start cleaning up," Mr. Harris announced, still with his feet up on the desk as the class began to move from their lab stations and huddle around the sinks.

"You sure you're okay?" Allison glanced sideways at Scott while the coughing slowed, arm coming up to cover his mouth. He didn't even notice that she'd already turned the Bunsen burner off or that her page was filled with the rest of the necessary calculations.

"I'm fine," he croaked, itch in his throat close to causing another fit. Allison pulled a water from her bag and handed it over before she gathered beakers to take to the sink. Scott pulled his glasses off and took a few gulps from the bottle, the cool water soothing his throat temporarily.

Allison returned and mentioned, "Maybe your migraine yesterday is really the beginning of the flu?"

"I hope not."

"I'd walk you to English, but I have a meeting with the guidance counselor about A.P. classes next year," Allison stalled as she ran her finger across the edge of the lab table. "Did you want Tylenol or something?"

"Nah, I'll be fine," Scott smiled and waved her off before he shoved the lab work into his backpack.

He spent the first fifteen minutes of English with his forehead down on his crossed arms, mind too busy focusing on taking deep and even breaths to notice that the class was watching the movie version of _The Great Gatsby_. A faint wheezing started up halfway through, signaling to Scott that he needed a puff from his inhaler. He was up and across the classroom, headed for the door before he could even convince himself to wait it out again.

"Mr. McCall," Ms. Pelter shouted. Scott could hear her heels padding across the tile and the two met as Scott slid down the lockers just outside of the classroom, inhaler already to his lips and puff inhaled. "Oh," she responded when she realized what was going on, leading her to call, "Mr. Whittemore."

"Wait…what?" Stiles asked Jackson less than ten minutes later, jumping from his slumped position against Scott's locker.

"He's getting one of those breathing things in the nurse's office, with the mist and the tubes. Brought him there myself. Reminds me of hookah," Jackson mentioned as he exchanged his notebooks for new ones. "Hey, I thought those attacks would have gone away by now."

"Did…did this just happen? Why didn't you text me?" Stiles slammed his first against the locker and sped down the hallway, narrowly missing a hall monitor's desk and a gaggle of girls walking way too slowly toward the cafeteria.

Stiles found Scott at the center table of the nurse's office breathing in albuterol from a nebulizer mouthpiece, the machine buzzing beside him. He was straining to breathe, shoulders lifting and falling rapidly as he fought the lead nurse, who was pushing the mouthpiece he'd just taken out back between his lips. Stiles' own lips parted as he regained his composure, knowing exactly what the squint in Scott's eyes and the gaping of his mouth meant. _No,_ he whispered to himself as he made his way to sit beside Scott. _No._

"Mr. Stilinski, you should get back to class."

"I'm not going anywhere." Stiles dropped his bag to the floor and pulled his chair closer to Scott. "Hey, I'm here," he whispered as he took his friend's free hand, which was shaking from the medication, and steadied it on Scott's leg.

"It just-" Scott tried as he pulled the mouthpiece out, but Stiles shushed him.

"Don't talk, just breathe."

"Itches," Scott managed before he gripped the plastic mouthpiece with his teeth and pointed to his neck.

"Whoa, dude, you have hives. Like, lots and lots of hives." Stiles' eyes were wide as he examined the red blotches covering Scott's neck, concern growing when he realized they covered his hands as well.

"Did you eat anything that might have had peanuts in it today, Scott?" the nurse was asking as she walked over with an epi-pen and a bottle of Benadryl.

"No," he wheezed, his shaking fingers weaving themselves between Stiles', the pressure of their grip the only thing keeping him from passing out. _Please don't let go,_ he thought. _I can't do this without you._

"Mom's on her way," the nurse announced. "The more you try and relax, the easier it will be to breathe." Scott could feel her hovering, her shadow sucking up all of the air around him, making his inhales grow shorter. "Is the treatment helping at all?" Scott nodded even though it was a lie, closed eyes a veil to the worry that was making him lightheaded, lips suddenly tighter around the plastic so that he could try to inhale every last wisp of medicine. "I'm going to give you a dose of antihistamine and we'll see how it goes, okay?"

Scott held his jaw tight as he tried to keep the tears at bay, nodding at the nurse's information only because his throat was closing and he needed an anchor to keep himself from all-out panicking. Stiles' hand was enough, but he wondered how long it would last. Because the room was starting to sound distant, the nebulizer compressor just a hiss, voices tinged with an echoing. It wasn't until he felt the rim of a medicine cup at his bottom lip, jaw lax as he let the nurse pour the liquid into his mouth, that he opened his eyes. It was the sugar that made him grimace, had given him those few seconds to hide his anxiety before the nurse turned away to fill a cup of water.

Stiles bit his lip and jiggled his leg as the mouthpiece misted in his hand. His mouth opened to ask a question, but he wasn't sure what exactly that question was, if it was even a question at all. Scott sipped the water and slid the cup across the table, hand grabbing for his medicine. His eyes closed again, eyelids tight as he wheezed on, face muscles twisting in concentration.

Stiles could feel Scott's hand crushing his and nearly pulled away from the pain, a wise comment popping into his head. He was about to deliver it, Adderall the only thing between his impulse and control, when he realized that Scott's breathing was starting to hitch. "Dude, I know you can barely breathe right now and it's really scary," he whispered as he readjusted his hand beneath Scott's to make it slightly more comfortable. "I know because I'm scared, too. But I'm going to stay with you and I promise I will not let go."

Scott nodded, but Stiles knew better; he was getting worse and the body language was just to keep everyone else from worrying. "Um, I-I don't think any of it's really helping," Stiles panicked when he noticed Scott's lips had acquired a blue tint, the same hue he'd seen on his mother's lips during those last days. The ones where him and his father had lived in suspension, a game of waiting that they both knew three would end up losing.

Stiles knew he couldn't go through that again, not if he could help it. Which is probably why he doesn't remember the how the epi-pen fit like it was designed just for his hand or the pressure of it against Scott's jeaned leg. Why he doesn't remember the cool air rushing around his Scott-less fingers for less than thirty seconds or the awful mechanical click of the auto injector. What he does remember is this: The first exuberant inhale of many easy-flowing breaths into Scott's lungs, the way Scott's warm body was hugging his as Stiles helped him to a bed, the weight of Scott's hand, different than it was before, in his once again as Melissa arrived just in time for Stiles' mumble jumble of _I'msosorryIletgo_ to start.


	8. Chapter 8

Melissa McCall sat in the dark of her son's ICU room, hand periodically shifting from his right hand to his dark, messy hair. As a nurse she knew Scott's prognosis was good: Oxygen levels were coming up quickly, lips had lost their blue hue, and the ventilator had taken over to let his lungs heal. What had set this allergic reaction off, she wasn't sure, but she knew he was recovering faster than he ever had before, and so she gripped her son's hand in a strong hold as she wordlessly pleaded with him to open his eyes. That, it seemed, would be the only way she'd know, feel in her heart, that he was going to be okay.

It wasn't until about 8PM, as Melissa debated whether or not to take a quick trip to the bathroom, that she felt Scott's hand move in hers. His eyes blinked open and squinted in the low light above his bed. Tears pooled in Melissa's eyes as she leaned in closer, Scott just realizing that there was a machine breathing for him as his eyes pulled downward to focus on the chest tube.

"Hey, Scott," she cooed as she rubbed his forehead and planted a kiss on his cheek, the clicks from the ventilation machine and slow, steady beeping from the heart monitor the only other sounds in the room. His mouth felt dry and his eyes, foggy from medication, were unable to focus completely on his mother's face. "You had a severe allergic reaction, but you're going to be okay. Try not to fight the machine. Are you in any pain?"

He'd been through this before, knew he wouldn't be able to talk until they took the tube out, so he blinked twice to say _no_ and reached for his mother's hand to flatten it, index finger tracing an S, T, and I on her palm.

"Stiles," she started before Scott could finish, half-wanting to chuckle at the thought that he was so concerned for his best friend at a moment like this, but wasn't sure how to continue. The image of Stiles pacing with his hands running forward and backward through his hair in those initial minutes of arriving at the hospital, tears streaming from red eyes, was enough to make it hard for her to swallow. Could she even describe the way he collapsed in his father's arms like a toddler who refused to be left at school when the Sherriff had arrived? She forced a swallowed and smiled, reassuring Scott that, "He really wanted to stay, but they wouldn't let him into the ICU. Mr. Stilinski took him home a few hours ago. I tried to make special arrangements, but this isn't really my floor."

Scott traced an O and K, more worried about how Stiles was faring than himself. He had the feeling that Stiles' anxiety had taken over, the last full memory he had before blacking out his best friend hysterically repeating _I'm so sorry I let go_ like a crazy mantra. Scott knew he could handle the hospital stuff: The ventilator, the breathing treatments, the IVs. But it was Stiles who had spent most of the fifth and eighth grades rotating between the ICU and oncology wards as a visitor, and Scott knew this visit would be hard on his best friend.

He remembered how he thought that Stiles might be okay when his mother finally passed, that he'd had enough of being pulled out of school on his mother's bad days and the tuna casseroles that just ended up molding in the fridge as the statistics continued to grow against them. But on the day it happened, when Scott came over at Mr. Stilinski's suggestion, Stiles refused to speak, tears trailing his cheeks with a sniffle here and there. He sat in the corner of his room, eyes set on the carpet, body stiff as his knees remained curled against his chest. And Scott had just sat there next to him for what felt like hours of silence, concerned that his friend had broken in such a way that he'd never be able to be put back together again.

"I was so worried about you," Melissa sobbed, hand covering her mouth as she tried to get her emotions under control. "I'm sorry I'm crying, I just…when they put you on the ventilator I thought that I was going to lose you. And you're here now, awake and not in pain, and I'm just so happy. Worried, still, but so grateful that you're doing okay."

Scott grabbed for his mother's hand again, the letters D, A, and D traced across her opened palm before he could stop himself. His mother's lips folded inward and she looked him right in the eye. "I left a message, but I can't make any promises, Scott. You know how he is." He blinked once, _yes_, and squeezed his mother's hand tightly, thinking about how he suddenly wanted to cry but couldn't bring himself to. _She needs me to help her get through this, _he thought. _I wish I could smile for her_.

* * *

Mr. Stilinski's face twisted as he tried to keep the tears welling behind his eyes from falling, attempts at pinning his son's flailing limbs down on the mattress nearly futile due to the power in his fight. "Stiles! Stiles, it's okay, everything is okay. Just stop throwing your arms and legs around before-" he tried, but was interrupted by the punch of a fist in his right eye. The blow threw his head back, but he rallied through the pain and managed to still Stiles against the bed with every ounce of his body weight, both men breathing hard as Stiles' muscles finally relaxed.

"Was I…did it happen again?" Stiles whispered into the darkness while his father climbed off of him and caught his breath.

"You were screaming for your mother," his father stated, voice low as he sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing his cheekbone for any signs of a fracture. Stiles tapped the lamp on his nightstand and sat up, sweat still rolling down the back of his t-shirt as he went to sit beside his father.

"Oh my God!" Stiles exclaimed once he saw the blood dripping from his father's nose and the way his eyelid was starting to swell. "Dad…I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay, son. It was an accident." But even so, the guilt hit Stiles in the form of anxiety, throat tightening and hands fidgeting in his lap as he thought about the black and blue that would soon appear. _Ice pack_ he thought as he worked to keep himself from going over the edge. _Wet washcloth. Kitchen._

"It's not okay," Stiles argued, close to tears for the fourth time that day. "Nothing about today has been okay!" Storming from his room, he thought of Scott in the ICU and the breathing tube down his throat giving him life-saving oxygen. _I didn't do enough_ he berated as he pulled open a drawer of linens and wet it under the faucet. _I just make things worse for everyone_. He didn't even feel the chill of the freezer when he grabbed a few ice cubes and put them in a Ziploc bag.

"Melissa called me about an hour ago," his father added as he walked into the kitchen, one hand under his nose to keep the blood from getting on his shirt, and pulled a chair out, the two bathed in the yellow light beneath the stove hood. "Scott woke up." Stiles helped his father place the ice pack with a paper towel wrapped around it against his eye, lips parted. "She said you were the first thing he asked about."

"If you're making this up so that I won't feel so bad about giving you a bloody nose and bruised eye, then-"

"I'm not."

"How the hell was he asking about me if he's got a tube shoved down his throat? Hmm?" Stiles knew it was mean, but he wasn't sure if he was going to throw up or start crying, the mix of anxiety and guilt becoming too much to bear. The wet washcloth was heavy in his hands, skin pruning from the moisture.

"She said he wrote your name in her palm." His dad smiled, laughing slightly at Scott's creativity. Stiles wordlessly rubbed at the drying blood above his father's lip, own lips fumbling as they tried to find a comfortable position, mind busy keeping his breathing even so that the sob waiting behind his façade would stay put. "He really cares about you, Stiles. What did your mom call you guys? Two peas in a pod?"

"Then how come every time I try to help him he just ends up sicker?" Stiles felt the air deflate from his lungs, tears like a breaking dam in his stinging eyes as they showed. _Two peas in a pod. Why did he have to bring that up?_ The washcloth fell to the tile. "I'm no good for him. Or for you, or even for myself." He wasn't sure how it was possible to break like this twice in one day, but he felt it in every shaking sob, in the way his father blanketed him in a hug as the two fell to their knees. "He doesn't need me. He-He needs someone who can make everything okay. And he's not okay, Dad. Something's really wrong and I can't figure it out. Why can't I figure it out?"

"I have never seen two friends so willing to suffer for the benefit of the other," Mr. Stilinski assured his son through gritted teeth as he dropped the ice pack and let his own tears appear. "You are more than good for him. And you are every father's dream. I could never trade you for any other, Stiles. You hear me? Because maybe you think Scott doesn't need you, but you have to know that I need you and that I love you."

"He was fine all morning," Stiles sobbed. "I left him at his locker and then all of a sudden he was in the nurses office in really bad shape. Dad, he could barely breathe. He was just getting worse and I knew well before I grabbed the epi-pen that that was what he needed. But I wasn't fast enough. I couldn't stop it."

"Shhh," he soothed as he pulled Stiles into his lap and held him against his chest.

"I can't lose him, Dad. I can't I can't I can't." It was hard for Stiles to breathe, but he just let it happen, congestion filling his nose and forcing his mouth open.

"Do you know what Melissa said to me the last time Scott was in the ICU?" But Stiles was in the middle of a silent sob, the kind that leaves you paralyzed and stuck in your thoughts, and couldn't answer. "She told me that she was convinced you were the only reason he pulled through."

"No," Stiles shook his head. "That can't be. I wasn't allowed to see him in the ICU."

"But you called him. Do you remember? Melissa put the phone against his ear even though he was still unconscious. You chatted his ear off for over two hours. That was all you, Stiles. I don't know what you said, but I think even then he knew he needed you and he hung on."

"Then why didn't it work with Mom?" Stiles asked. His father swallowed hard and began to rub his son's back, crying slowly dissipating, shaking completely over with.

"That was different, babe. Things with Mom were very different."

"Didn't she want to stay?"

"That's all she talked about when you weren't there," he admitted, sniffling. "She wanted to stay so badly. I think it was harder for her to know she was leaving you than me. I think it's the same for Scott; to him, leaving you behind would be the worst thing he could possibly do to you. I wish you could see that."

"I just want to see him. I want to know he's really okay." Stiles felt small in his father's arms even though they were close in size.

"I know, son. Trust me, I know." He hugged his son tighter, rubbed his head even though he knew Stiles had calmed down to the point of closing his eyes. Mr. Stilinski recalled his son's heart wrenching breakdown in the hospital lobby earlier that day, closing his own eyes as he leaned against the refrigerator.

"He wasn't breathing," Stiles had screamed as he clung to his father for support, knees bending and nails digging into the back of his police jacket. Mr. Stilinski wasn't sure how to respond, the news still fresh and incomprehensible at the time. "He wasn't breathing," Stiles screeched like a four year old at the tail end of a tantrum where he was losing his voice. He pulled away just enough to look down, the fear in his son's eyes the same kind he'd seen when he and his wife had had to tell Stiles about the relapse. His eyes, filled with disbelief, met Melissa's, their glistening and redness a sign that Stiles was being true to his word.

"No," Mr. Stilinski said and shook his head, but Melissa nodded and covered her mouth as she walked toward him and let herself huddle beneath his arms.

"He's going to be okay," he had said, but his voice flickered like a candle struggling against the wind and he wondered if he was the only one who had heard it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:**

So I'd just like to thank everyone who has been following this story. Your reviews mean the world to me and really keep me writing. I'm sorry that the chapters have been coming in a bit slowly. Work and grad school have just started up again and I'm doing my best. This is my writing project right now, though, and I'm excited to keep it up on the side. Keep those reviews coming and I'll keep posting chapters. :)

* * *

"You told Allison?!" Scott yelled as he slammed his locker shut and glared angrily at Stiles.

"Well, she asked, and you've been avoiding her all day, so I figured maybe if I explained what was going on she'd be a little less, I don't know, distraught?" It was the Monday after, the past week a blur of Scott's dimmed hospital room, endless games of Halo, and what seemed like a million breathing treatments to Stiles. He was exhausted but grateful, the fact that Scott was standing right in front of him at school, breathing, enough to make his own breathing a little easier.

"It wasn't your information to give! How much did you tell her?"

"I don't know, some of it?" Stiles shrugged.

"What do you define as 'some of it'?"

"That you've been asthmatic your whole life and that even though you were cured of it by the Bite that it's suddenly back again? With some kind of wolfy vengeance?"

"And that's it?"

"Well, I had to tell her that you were in the hosp-"

"Jesus, Stiles! Why do always have to be in the middle of my fucking business! She's probably worried sick now!"

"I'm not going to apologize for doing what I thought was right, Scott. She cares about you and you can't just lie to someone who-"

"I'm so angry with you right now that I…I…argh, I can't believe you!" Scott yelled, whisking his backpack from the floor and throwing a strap over his shoulder.

"Scott," Stiles tried, but his friend just bumped into his left shoulder as he passed, pace quick enough for him to beat around the hallway traffic to the curve in the hallway. And then he was gone, Stiles the only one left when the bell rang a minute later.

The thought of putting his backpack on and trudging to class was the last thing on his mind. He'd never skipped before, but then again Scott had never seemed so furious with him. Maybe it was Allison, or the tightness in his chest that he refused to acknowledge but Stiles knew was there. Maybe it was the way it was lingering, waiting to worsen. Or maybe it was the fact that Scott had only been able to breathe on his own for six days now, and he was finding it hard to manage without help. Stiles wasn't sure, but he was starting to get the feeling that Scott was distancing himself, and he knew that wasn't a good thing. Because Stiles cared and Scott was too blinded at the moment to realize, which meant that either Stiles waited for everything to fall and went running to fix things or walked away before everything began to deteriorate and didn't look back.

It was the first time that he wondered if it would be better for him to step away, let Scott fend for himself and figure things out on his own. And even though Stiles' heart ached at the thought, his mind repeated _let it be, let it be_, words forming on his lips and following him to his car, the Beatles song on his iPod blaring through the canvas roof as he drove away.

* * *

Scott and Stiles walked through the parking lot after lacrosse practice, the silence between them since sixth period enough to pique Coach's interest that afternoon when he yelled, "Bilinski! McCall! Stop acting like you guys just had some horrible breakup in the locker room and start running! Run! Run! Faster! There ya go!"

"I guess I'll speak first, since you're being stubborn and we pretty much know how this is going to end." Stiles' attempt at sarcasm was met with bored eyes, his hand around the keys in his pocket the only thing keeping him from exploding.

"You ready to apologize?" Scott asked, attitude apparent in the way his head was tilted.

"No, I'm not going to write you an apology." Stiles put his hands on his hips and pulled his lips inward as a means of stalling so that he could figure out the best mix of words to get his point across to Scott. "I know I'm usually a fan of avoiding a situation until it goes away and all, but I don't know, not this time. I mean, never mind the fact that Derek had a shit fit when I had to call him and explain that you stopped breathing. Do you know how long it took me to make that phone call without sounding like a three year old in the middle of a temper tantrum?" He left Scott with a few seconds of silence to answer, but he didn't take the invitation, instead looked away, annoyed that Stiles wasn't mumbling some form of apology. "I bet you didn't even think about how any of this has been affecting me, by the way. Or about how I've been racking my brain, staying up all hours of the night trying to figure out why any of this is even happening in the first place."

"Look, I just want to forget about everything and go on doing exactly what I was doing before. I don't want to talk or think about it. And I don't want a million people knowing, which is why I'm still angry at you for upsetting Allison earlier." Stiles had to take a deep breath to handle that one. She'd been upset long before Stiles had shown up next to her locker after third period, but Scott was too lost in his own emotions to see that.

"I don't know what you're trying to do here Scott, but you're hurting the people closest to you by ignoring what's happening and keeping things from them. And you're hurting yourself, too, because if you haven't noticed, you're not really getting better. Maybe you can breathe right now, but that's only because you're on a million medications. I know it's going to happen again. I can feel it."

"Oh, you can _feel_ it? I'm the one with the heightened senses here, and I don't feel anything. In fact, I feel the best I've felt in a week. So please, tell me how I'm being ridiculously selfish."

"I just have a really bad feeling about all of this, and if you would just give me a chance to figure it-"

"Would you stop being jealous for one minute? You had your chance to get the Bite and you blew it, so don't try and make me feel guilty for being faster or smarter or getting the girl," Scott practically screamed. Stiles tried to swallow, lump that had been growing in his throat all day thickening. He wasn't sure how Scott could think that all of this was jealousy. Had he not picked up on his best friend's bout of silence the entire week before? The way he kept track of time between his medications or calmed Derek down enough over the phone time after time to keep him from knocking the front door of the McCall house?

"You really think I'm jealous of you?" He hadn't wanted to ask, but it had slipped out, the words spilling from him instead of the tears threatening to form. "You think I liked holding your hand in the nurses office while you went into anaphylactic shock? That I enjoyed spending hour upon hour waiting to hear whether or not you woke up?" A _this is unbelievable_ chuckle escaped and Stiles shifted his weight as he pulled his keys from his pocket. "I've been jealous of you before, Scott, but not over this. Not over the Bite and everything that came with it, or the attention you've been getting this past week and a half." Unlocking the driver's side door, Stiles licked his lips and lifted his head up, adding, "I've been too busy worrying myself sick over you to be jealous. I thought you of all people would know that." before pulling the door shut and driving away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:**

Thanks for hanging in there everyone! Good news: I finally finished the first draft of my thesis, which means that HOPEFULLY I will have more time to write this story. I love your reviews, so keep them coming! Enjoy!

* * *

Melissa pushed the door to the hospital stairwell open, cool air calming her racing heart as she sat and pushed the few curly strands that had fell from her tight ponytail away from her face. A boy had come in, barely six, dark hair and eyes too similar to Scott's for her to shrug off. He was fine now, breathing and blood pressure stable, oxygen stats rising quickly. But the terror in his eyes as he gasped for air had made her pause, stethoscope barely off of her neck when Tamara had pushed her out of the way.

"He's faking," Scott's father used to say when their son would call for them in the middle of the night. "He just wants attention." But Melissa knew better. She'd watched as the pediatrician took his glasses off and listened with her hand against her mouth when he said her son's was one of the worst cases of asthma he'd ever seen in such a young child. She was always the one caressing his back in the middle of a bad night, his small body in her lap as they breathed in the bathroom steam together. How could she have missed the wheezing, always present as he flew through the kitchen to grab an after school snack, and the deep, productive cough he battled every fall and spring?

Maybe she'd been hopeful that he had finally grown out of it, that maybe the lacrosse practices were helping and he wouldn't have to lug the nebulizer off to college. But even so, she'd somehow failed to detect the slight struggle in Scott's breathing that had to have been there when he left for Stiles' that night, no reminder to bring his inhaler or epi-pen. Had she figured he'd heard it enough? That it was already in his backpack?

She pulled her phone from her pocket and hesitated over her contacts list, mascara caked on both index fingers from rubbing beneath her teary eyes. _He doesn't want to hear me rambling on about everything that's happened this past week and a half_, she thought to herself. _But he's the only one who has been through it with me and I need someone to talk to. That isn't crazy, right?_

She thought back to the night after Scott had had an attack during the soccer game in Huntington Beach, the way Geoff had carried her son's sleepy, wheezy body from the car to his bed, staying for what he'd promised would only be 'one cup of coffee'. "To let the kids relax, play some video games. They've had a long day," he had said with a smile, but Melissa wondered if maybe he too was feeling lonely, not sexually, but emotionally, what with his wife being sick and away at her sister's for the weekend.

"Sometimes it feels like you're the only real friend I have around here," he had chuckled before finishing his third cup. "Not many people want to befriend the Sherriff. Or the guy with a sick wife."

She hadn't known what to say, then, though it wasn't awkward and didn't make her think any less of him. But as her thumb finally pressed down on his contact profile, she felt a sense of calm that she'd been craving for far too long wash over her.

* * *

Stiles shoved a handful of fries into his already overstuffed mouth, will to wait for his father to return to the station too much to ask of himself. He positioned the mouse over the password box on the screen and typed in _Catherine, _computer informing him in red lettering that his access had been denied. _She's his password for everything_, he thought, eyebrows crinkling as he swiveled the chair left and right, wondering why he'd been able to get on two weeks ago when he'd last sat in that very seat.

"It's like a monsoon out there," Sherriff Stilinski remarked as he walked into the office, hands running through his hair to get the excess water out. Stiles wordlessly nudged the Wendys bag on the desk towards his father who was too busy peeling his soaking jacket off to notice. "Where's your usual partner in crime?"

"Home, I guess." Which was more wishful thinking than fact because once Stiles saw how drenched his father had gotten on his walk from his patrol car into the station, Scott was the first thing on his mind. He imagined him hood up and shivering as he trudged through puddles, the three mile trek from Beacon Hills High School to his house on Woodson at least forty minutes, and that was only if you cut through the patch of dead end streets bordering the Preserve. _You shouldn't care_, _not with the way he's treating you_ he told himself, but even he knew that wasn't possible.

"Maybe the better question to ask is why aren't you two at Scott's house together?" Stiles didn't have to look at his father to know the look on his face.

"I brought us dinner." His voice was monotone as he pushed the bag closer to his father, who peeked in with one finger holding the paper and chuckled at the salad and water inside.

"Quite the feast you've got here," Mr. Stilinski chuckled. Stiles just kept his head down as he swiveled the chair back and forth. "Hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Well, obviously you're not, because-"

"I said, I'm fine." Stiles felt his voice crack, the lump in his throat from earlier almost too hard to speak over.

"Okay." His father let the word out slowly, hands carefully placing the wet jacket on the back of his chair so as not to make his son more annoyed than he already seemed.

"You changed your password," Stiles mused.

"Because someone kept using my account to search for confidential information and I almost lost my job."

"Is it because there's someone else?"

"What?"

"Nevermind. Look, I'm…I'm gonna go. I'll see you at home," Stiles announced as he gripped his keys in his pocket and stood up.

"You're not going anywhere," Mr. Stilinski ordered as he put a finger up. "It's practically the Flood out there," he added as he pointed at the window, "and your Jeep isn't great on wet road."

"Leave my Jeep out of this!"

"What's this _someone else_ business, anyway?"

"I don't know," Stiles answered as he lifted his hands up in defeat and sighed. "You just seem…distracted, I guess."

"Distracted?"

"Dad, I don't really want to talk right now, so if you want to just eat-"

"Distracted?"

"Really, can we just talk later? I'm not in-"

"Distracted?"

"Ugh! Yes, Dad, distracted! As in can't focus, won't eat, can't stop whistling and singing and fidgeting like there's some kind of motor inside of you!"

"Oh, I'm the one with a motor inside of me?" Mr. Stilinski's eyebrows rose, finger pointing inward on his shirt before his voice lowered. "Have you even been taking your Adderall this week?"

"What, so I can focus even more on all of the shitty stuff that's been happening? Because that's what those pills do, Dad." Stiles pulled his lips inward and pushed his hands through his hair, fingers gripping as if they wanted to pull it all out. "They make my thoughts repeat in my head like some kind of proctor. They make me edgy and anxious and I know you think that they help me focus and listen and stop myself from doing stupid things. God, I wish they did all of that, Dad, but they don't and I hate them. I hate them like I hate that Mom can't be here. I hate them like I hate the fact that Scott…that he…he…"

"Stiles," Mr. Stilinski said, tone the least bit threatening as he tried to look his son in the eyes. "Hey," he asked, his arm reaching out and helping his son, whose shoulders were lifting with the onset of another panic attack, sit down again.

"I…I hate…this," Stiles whispered breathlessly as his father pulled him into a hug, silent tears seeping through the tan of the Sherriff's uniform.

"Not as much as I do, son. Definitely not as much as I do," he whispered as another officer passed his desk and made eye contact with him, quick to look away when she realized what was happening.


	11. Chapter 11

Scott looked behind him for what felt like the hundredth time since he left school in a huff over a half hour ago, sky dimming with the onset of sunset. The rain was starting, but the cold had been there all day, temperature dropping exponentially as the sun moved westward. The entirety of that afternoon's lacrosse practice had been endless running drills that had left Scott's legs and lungs aching, and he couldn't wait to get home and just relax on the couch.

But the overwhelming sense that something was following him shadowed the soreness, stretches of the Preserve that paralleled his walk only deepening his urge to shape shift. The sudden increase in the amount of rain falling caused Scott to pull his hood over his soaking hair, arms crossing as he began to shiver from the October chill. He watched his breath cloud in front of him as he dragged his feet across the wet pavement, eyes lifting only to catch the street signs.

But then there was a whoosh of wind beside him and what felt like a heavy hand on his shoulder, and though Scott wasn't afraid, he found himself running, attempting to shape shift in order to move quicker. Feeling the tips of his fingers against his palm, he realized it wasn't happening. In fact, he couldn't feel the fur on his face or the sharpness that typically appeared in his teeth either.

Still, he ran. For six blocks and straight up the front steps until he reached his house where he locked the door behind him, breath coming in short, high pitched pants and inhales. It wasn't until he slowed down, tried to take a few steps towards the stairwell, that he realized he couldn't breathe. He let his backpack fall to the floor as he leaned against the door, wet sweatshirt meeting it and slowing his slide down.

"Scott," he heard his mother yell from the kitchen. "I have to run, but there's pizza in the fridge for you." His inhaler met his lips and he took a puff, back still straight against the door as she asked, "Do you have plans for tonight?"

"Yes," he whispered, but it was too soft to travel the length of the house.

"Scott?" she asked, but he was still calming his breathing down and his wheezy _yes_ had barely made it past the foyer. "Scott?" she asked again, voice turning slightly worried as he heard her sneakers padding quickly against the wood of the hallway. _She's totally going to freak_, Scott thought as his mother appeared and squatted beside him, eyes narrowing with worry when she realized what was going on. He took another puff and watched as she forced her rising hand, which he knew was going to feel his forehead, down. "You walked home in the rain?"

"Y-yeah," he wheezed, uncapped inhaler still in his hand as he worked to relax his lungs.

"Why didn't Stiles drive you home?"

"Had to…meet his dad." Scott stumbled over the words and coughed a few times, hand rubbing at his aching chest as he pictured Stiles backing out of his parking space an hour earlier, the way he didn't peel out in anger, but with a slow concentration. _Why was I so selfish? I should have stopped myself._ There was a sudden tugging in his chest, but it wasn't from the asthma.

"You want to start a treatment?"

"Later. Just need a hot shower," Scott said as he closed his eyes and sighed heavily, wondering if he'd taken it too far in the parking lot. The two had never fought like this before, and without their friendship in decent standing, Scott wasn't sure what to do.

"You sure you're feeling okay? That's some wheeze you've got going on." Instead of answering, Scott just let his head lean back against the door, eyes still shut. Concerned, Melissa pulled the inhaler from Scott's fingers and inspected the number on the counter.

"How many puffs have you been taking a day?" There was a harshness to her mother's voice with a small side of gentle. It made the tugging that had gone away just seconds before return. He knew he couldn't lie, not if the counter was going to work against him. But if he told her the truth, he knew she'd put the baby monitor back on his nightstand, which he was surprised she hadn't done already. "Scott," she warned.

"I don't know, I take it every six hours like I'm supposed to. And when I don't feel well."

"This inhaler is three days old, Scott. You've already gone through thirty-five puffs. There is such a thing as overdosing on-"

"I'm…I'm just trying to get back on my feet, Mom," Scott tried to reassure her, but he could sense it in her eyes, the way they didn't seem to work with the smile on her lips, that she didn't believe him.

"I don't want to leave you like this, but my shift starts in ten."

"I'm fine, Mom. Promise."

"I'm worried about you," she whispered.

"You're always worried about me."

"Keep your phone on?" Her voice was still low, but her eyes were avoiding his.

"Sure."

"And do a treatment. It sounds like you're getting bronchitis and you know how fast-"

"I know."

"Eat some pizza, get your homework done."

"Okay," Scott said, knowing his mother was stalling, some kind of motherly instinct taking over and pleading with her not to leave him.

"Did you say you had plans tonight?" Finally, she looked up.

"Allison's coming over to study,"

"Study, huh?" There was a laugh, but even Scott knew it was forced.

"I _am_ failing English…"

"Right. I'll see you in the morning?" She helped Scott up and kissed him on his forehead before grabbing her purse from the hook on the wall and pulling on the locked door. Without so much as a questioning glance as to why it was locked she unlatched it and left, Scott waiting for the absence of his mother's tires on the wet road before heading for the stairwell, backpack in hand.

* * *

The books were scattered on the carpet of Scott's room before the door even shut, Allison's right hand gripping the neck of Scott's grey sweatshirt so that she could pull him to the bed. His knees bent, body crawling over Allison's until their lips finally met. Scott led a trail of kisses down her neck and onto her exposed shoulder, pink t-shirt crooked from their movement. He took in her lavender perfume, Allison whispering _that tickles_ as she squirmed beneath him. But instead of smiling back, Scott's mouth hung open, wide and pulling in air as best he could while his focus shifted to the sudden heaviness in his chest. He scooted backwards until his hand felt for the end of the bed, where he froze to keep from falling off.

Allison sprung up and pushed her hair behind her ears in embarrassment, unsure of whether or not she should say something or let Scott speak first. She thought maybe he had been turned-off by something, but when she realized that he was moving his lips, a strangled sound coming from him with each breath, she came up beside him and lay her hand on his shoulder.

"Scott, what's going on? Are you okay?" He closed his eyes and shook his head as Allison got face to face with him, his hands searching the pockets of his jeans and coming up with nothing. _She doesn't know me like this_, he thought, _and now she's going to._

"A-asthma," he managed, carefully sliding to the floor so that the bed was supporting him. "Get my…backpack," he wheezed as his lungs continued to spasm, arm reaching out to direct Allison.

"Should I call your mom?" Allison's voice shook, something Scott had never heard before. He knew her to be calm in extreme situations, and watching her fumble with the multiple zippers on his backpack, eyes looking from the bag to him, made his throat tighten. _Just give the whole thing to me_, he wanted to yell, but this attack had come on fast, and he could sense that it was going to be relentless for that very reason. His eyes caught the tangle of wiring and thin tubing from his nebulizer on the floor next to his nightstand and he imagined the relief he would feel if he could get a treatment started.

But Allison wouldn't know how to and Scott was sure he didn't have enough air to talk her through it. And his fingers were tingling, the mix of anxiety and lack of oxygen enough to make him wonder if he was going to pass out. _It was the lavender, _he remembered as he caught another wave of Allison's perfume, the cool plastic of the inhaler finally in his hands.

"Stiles," Scott whispered after taking a puff, knowing that it wouldn't be enough to stop the attack. He pushed his phone across the carpet and inhaled another puff, Allison's fingers meeting his for a brief second before separating.


	12. Chapter 12

The distinct drum lead-in to the chorus of Blink 182's "Kaleidoscope" started for what Stiles thought was the fourth time, but he continued driving despite the fact that the vibration pattern between each call meant that multiple voicemails had already been left. _If he thinks that calling me will fix this, then he's not the person I always thought he was._ There was a tugging in the center of Stiles' chest as he thought this, almost as if all of his emotions had been balled together and were ripping straight through him. "I'm not picking up." Stiles said firmly to himself as his Jeep followed the twisty road bordering the Preserve. "I will not pick up the phone. I will not pick up the phone," he repeated as a mantra, eyes barely focusing on the road as his lips moved on autopilot.

* * *

_I should have done a treatment before she came over_, Scott thought as he pulled at the collar of his t-shirt and pushed his right heel across the rug in panic, chest rising and falling unevenly. _I'm so stupid_.

"Scott, you have to help me," Allison was crying now, dark hair in disarray. "Please, just tell me what I'm supposed to do to make this better."

"Stiles," he managed. _He's the only one that knows, besides my mother_. _Don't call her. Please, whatever you do, don't call her. She doesn't need this right now._

"I called him four times," she assured him, phone still in her sweaty hand. "He's not picking up. I left voicemails a-and I can call again, but I don't think he's near his phone. Should I call your mom?"

Scott knew he should have nodded, probably should have had Allison dial 911, but he found himself whispering _Stiles_ again with whatever breath he could find. _I know you're stubborn, Stiles, but you're not stupid_, Scott thought, whishing he could get through to his best friend. _Pick up your damn phone!_

"Come on, Stiles," Allison whispered and then sniffled as she put the phone against her ear for the fifth time, not even letting herself think about what she'd have to do if he didn't pick up.

* * *

"Jesus, Scott," Stiles muttered as he pulled over to the side of the road and answered the call. "Are you ready to apologize for being a complete asshole, or is that beyond your Almighty Wolfiness?" His anger echoed through the phone, next wise comment already on the tip of his tongue.

"Stiles," Allison cried on the other end, and though there was a sense of relief in her voice, Stiles could also tell that something was very, very wrong.

"Allison?"

"Scott's…" she tried, but she got caught in a sob before she could finish. Stiles could hear Scott's breathing through the phone, the awful mix of constrained airway and whimpering enough for him to force the Jeep into drive and push his foot to the gas pedal. _I'm mad at you for an hour and you go and have an asthma attack. Great going, Scott. You really know how to play this friendship._

"Has he taken any medicine?"

"His inhaler, but he's just getting worse. I-I didn't know asthma could be this bad." She was on the verge of hysterics again, but Stiles pulled her out of it with a question.

"What about a breathing treatment?"

"A what?"

"His nebulizer. It's a small machine the size of a shoebox. There's a mask, like when they give someone oxygen at the hospital. It's either on or beside his nightstand."

"I think I found it, but I have no idea how to use it. How far away are you?"

"Can Scott talk?"

"No, he's trying, but-"

"You have to put the medicine in the machine. He can't do it like that and I won't make it there in time."

"What?! No, Stiles, I don't-"

"Plug the machine in. The medicine is in his nightstand. I'll talk you through it."

"Stiles, you need to get here."

"You're wasting time. Now, listen carefully to my directions."

* * *

Stiles could never remember exactly how him and Scott had met, but he remembers the first time he saw Scott's asthma kick-in like a movie he's seen a million times: His friend hunched over with his hands on his knees some autumn afternoon when the two had been running around the McCall's backyard, panicked heels kicking the cabinets and Scott's chest heaving as he sat on the countertop minutes later, fingers clutching at his shirt, Melissa's soft voice as she called her seven year old son Scotty and put a plastic contraption against his face to help him breathe. He remembers wondering how something that big over Scott's mouth and nose could ever help his breathing, but he kept himself quiet and listened to the hiss of the inhaler over and over, fingers wringing together in fear.

It was the first time he'd ever seen someone so acutely ill, and in retrospect Stiles knows that any other parent would have brought their child to the hospital; having a nurse for a mother had its perks, if you could see it that way. And even though the mask for Scott's breathing treatment freaked Stiles out, he was glad his friend seemed to be doing okay as the two watched Ninja Turtles on the television. Scott's red, exhausted face was surrounded by nebulizer fog, body propped up with pillows and wrapped in a blanket when he mumbled, "It's okay if you want," pausing to take a breath before adding, "to go home."

"Why would I want to go home?" Stiles could feel the shakiness in his voice and hoped that Scott didn't notice because even though Stiles was slightly uncomfortable with everything that had happened, the desire to stay right next to his friend was overwhelming.

"Because I had a really bad attack," he breathed, "and I know it really freaked you out."

"Dude, Ninja Turtles is on." Stiles pointed to the TV as a means of distraction. "I'm not going home."

"I hate asthma. It makes me such a loser."

"I don't think you're a loser," Stiles said as he turned toward Scott.

"You're going to tell everyone at school tomorrow." Scott's head fell downwards as he continued to breathe in the mist from his mask.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because that's what people do. They tell their friends' embarrassing stories. And then everyone laughs." Scott's breathlessness increased, the shaky inhale between sentences new to Stiles.

"I won't do that."

"Promise?" Scott looked up, a small smile visible beneath his mask.

"Of course. I just want you to feel better."

"I'm sorry I scared you."

"It's okay."

"I didn't do my treatment this morning, so that's probably why I had an attack."

"Is this," Stiles pointed to the mask, "a 'treatment'?"

"Yeah," Scott wheezed. "It makes my lungs feel a lot better, especially when my inhaler doesn't help." His eyes went back to the TV, but his mind stayed in the conversation.

"It must be really scary. To not be able to breathe sometimes," Stiles stated.

"Today it was. But I knew the medicine would help."

"Is it ever going to go away?"

"I don't know. I guess some people grow out of it."

"I hope that happens to you," Stiles said as he slid his hand across the blankets and reached for Scott's.

"Me too," Scott smiled and moved his hand so that the two were cupped within each other's. "Hey, thanks for staying."

"It's what best friends do," Stiles shrugged.

"Best friends?" Scott asked.

"Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Cool," Stiles smiled as he scooted closer to Scott, the mask and the mist and the wheezing not so scary anymore. And maybe he felt it then, just a little, or maybe he was just going with it because it felt right, but at that moment in particular, Stiles sensed that he needed a friend more than Scott did. Of course, he didn't know what was coming, couldn't say for sure that the two would know each other by middle school, let alone the end of first grade. But for the first time, Stiles had backed out of his goofiness, the hyperactivity that the teachers always frowned upon, and had focused on making someone else feel less alienated. And in turn it had made him feel in control, something that even at seven years old, Stiles rarely felt.

Maybe at the time he was too young to understand it all, but even then at least he knew that him and Scott were good for each other as people. Soul mates, in a way, but not lovers. No, it wasn't like that. In some way that Stiles still couldn't understand, their friendship was so much more than anything he'd ever know to exist.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note:

Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing! I'm so happy that you guys are enjoying my story. Please keep reviewing, as i lets me know that people are still interested! They make me smile. :) I'm sorry that this chapter seems short; grad school is getting crazy. I will keep updating, though, so don't fret!

* * *

Scott was on his side when Stiles entered his bedroom, body curved in a loose fetal position with his legs crossing at the ankles, face pale and lips parted slightly.

"I-it just slowed down on its own, but I know he's not okay," Allison swallowed, tears falling down her face as she rubbed Scott's back. "I wasn't sure how to do the machine, and I-I thought that if I m-messed it up…" Stiles waved her out of the way and tried to get closer to Scott, irritated that she'd been too wrapped up in her emotions to follow his instructions over the phone.

He kneeled to pull the nebulizer from beside Scott's nightstand and found a packet of medication in the top drawer. "Scott? Scott, can you hear me?" he asked as he ripped the wrapper off and fought to open one of the plastic nebules. His eyes stayed on Scott as he filled the medicine cup, noticing how his friend's shoulders were moving with small, shallow wheezes, eyes half-open but barely focusing. "He's breathing, but it's not good," Stiles sighed. "Stay with me, man. You're already past the attack. Everything else is cream cheese." He thought he saw a weak smile as he pressed the mask to Scott's face, but wasn't sure if it was from working so hard to breathe. Once he secured the strap around his best friend's head he turned the machine on, the medication mist appearing instantly.

"Come on, Scott," he whispered as he got on his belly beside his friend and rested his head on one arm, hand from his other reaching to grasp Scott's. "Don't even worry about what happened in the parking lot. Just breathe the medicine in."

"He kept saying your name over and over and he wouldn't let me call his mom." Allison sat with her back against Scott's bed now, curled fingers touching her lips, eyes bleeding with makeup as she focused on her boyfriend. "I thought he was going to stop breathing." Her voice cracked as she tried to hold tears back. Stiles bit his bottom lip and pushed the memories of Scott having an allergic reaction aside, right thumb tapping the carpet as he thought of something calming to say to Allison. _She's not used to seeing him like this_, he had to tell himself to keep from staying irritated. _Plus, you got emotional on the way here. So don't even try and hold that against her_.

"Attacks can be pretty scary," Stiles eventually sighed. "For everyone. I think he'll be okay, though. The wheeze is already starting to dissipate and he looks much more alert."

"Sti-" Scott started as he came to, but Stiles interrupted.

"Don't speak, just breathe. I'm here, Allison's here. We're not leaving you. And no, we didn't call your mom. So please, just relax," his voice lowered during the last bit as he pleaded with his eyes. Scott smiled and pulled his legs in a little to make himself more comfortable on the carpet, hand squeezing Stiles'.

"How long does it usually take?" Allison sniffled and rubbed at the makeup beneath her eyes with her fingers.

"Uh, about ten, fifteen minutes. He'll be weak, but definitely better than right now. You can hold his hand if you want…" he offered, even though he didn't really want to move.

"I'm…I'm okay over here."

"You're not gonna break him," Stiles chuckled lightly, but Allison just pulled into herself by wrapping her arms across her middle. He looked down at Scott for help, but he was dozing off again, exhaustion taking over and keeping him from tending to Allison.

"Why is this happening?" Her voice wavered, almost as if she might start balling.

"I don't know," Stiles whispered as he squeezed Scott's hand, hoping his friend could hear him. "I wish I knew."

Just then the front door opened and slammed shut, the sound of the living room windows rattling from the force as heavy footfalls came from the stairwell. Stiles scrambled to his feet just in time for Derek to appear in the doorway of Scott's bedroom, mouth twisted in anger, fists clenched.

"You called Derek?!" Stiles turned and looked at Allison in disbelief.

"You weren't picking up!" she quipped as Derek went straight for Scott on the floor, crouching beside him as the younger werewolf struggled slightly to breathe from the mask.

"This shouldn't be happening anymore," Derek grumbled and sat down in defeat between the nightstand and wall, eyes refusing to leave Scott.


	14. Chapter 14

Scott had felt himself slipping away, the hum of the nebulizer and Stiles' panicked voice the only thing able to filter through the fog. There had been a moment of guilt, a slight pulling in his heart as Allison's shaking hand raked back and forth across his t-shirt before Stiles even arrived, but that had passed quickly as he fought the darkness pooling behind his eyes.

_Thank God_ _you're here_, Scott thought to himself as he felt mist against his nose and tasted the albuterol on his lips, throat calming enough for him to attempt to say Stiles' name. He was afraid to look his best friend in the eye, wondered if he thought any less of him because of their fight earlier, so he just let Stiles hold his hand as the medicine filled his lungs more and more with each inhale.

Scott suddenly remembered being thirteen and waking up fighting for air, back painfully arching upwards each time he tried to inhale. His lips were moving, but there no words were coming out, his hand grazing his nightstand for any signs of his inhaler. He remembers how his eyes burned from being open so wide and the rough wallpaper against his fingertips and side of his face as he slid against the hallway wall to his parent's room.

Scott's fingers had gathered a mix of comforter and sheets when he went to put his hand down to shake his mother awake, his air-deprived brain unable to figure out why she wasn't there. His knees hinged, body ready to collapse, when his father hoisted him against him and started calling, screaming really, for the boy's mother. The last thing Scott remembers is hearing her feet bounding up the wooden stairs, and that's when he knew that they didn't sleep in the same room anymore.

And if it wasn't for Derek's booming voice and the way Scott could feel his feet pounding the stairs through the floor, he would have let himself blackout completely. But he fought it, harder this time not for Allison or even Derek, but for Stiles. Because Scott knew who Derek was going to blame, and for the first time in a long time Scott wished Stiles was the only one in the room, wished that it was just his best friend holding his hand and whispering corny words of encouragement that, coming from anyone else, Scott would just roll his eyes at.

But his asthma wasn't just about him anymore, had never really been, actually, at least since the day Stiles stayed after watching one of Scott's more dramatic attacks and sat with him as he did a breathing treatment. Which got Scott to thinking that maybe there were other things in his life that weren't just about him anymore as well, that maybe he'd forgotten that that was possible, and that maybe, just maybe, the hand holding that was going on at that specific moment was more vital to Stiles' well-being than Scott's. And so he finally tried to look his friend in the eye as a means of apologizing, but when he caught his friend biting his lip in nervousness, eyes unfocused and thoughts seemingly scattered seconds before Derek appeared, Stiles' "You really think I'm jealous of you?" sounded in Scott's head, heart tugging once again so fiercely that it made him lose any breath he'd regained, the darkness he'd been fighting finally able to take over.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:**

You reviews me so much to me! So thank you for reading and reviewing! I love when you guys tell me what you like/what you don't like/what confused you because it helps me focus my next chapter. Keep 'em coming! :D

* * *

"Hey, he's okay now," Stiles assured Derek, hoping that by pointing at Scott's relaxed body on the floor the surly werewolf would take a hint. "So can you please stop looking at me like I'm the bad guy here?"

"But he's wheezing," Derek yelled, eyes wide in anger as he ignored Stiles' request. "So he really isn't okay." The werewolf's dark eyes were so intensely focused on Scott's every breath that it made Stiles back off.

"Yeah," Stiles sighed, remembering that, once again, he was the expert in the room, the one who knew Scott, and his asthma, well enough to hopefully calm everyone down. "The wheezing will be there for a while," he said, voice low. "The important thing, though, is that the attack slowed down on it's own and he's doing his treatment. And there were no hives, so that's a plus."

"Hives?" Derek asked, confused eyes meeting Stiles'.

"The last time he had an attack his hands and neck were covered in them. I've only ever seen that happen to him once before, when we were younger and hate ate peanut butter by accident." Stiles pictured pulling apart a Ritz sandwich cracker during their fourth grade class holiday party, remembered the drop in his stomach when he realized that he was too late to keep Scott from putting one in his mouth. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself as he shifted his weight uncomfortably on the carpet. He'd heard Scott's mother say something later that night, when Scott was finally okay again, to Stiles' father. He tried to concentrate on the flashback, the line returning to him as he thought of Melissa with tears on her face. _All it takes is a peanut to unravel his entire world_, she had said. It had stuck with Stiles ever since.

"A peanut wouldn't do that," Allison added from her spot against Scott's bed. "To just his neck and hands, I mean."

"I know," Stiles said, relieved that Allison had joined in the conversation, and that he no longer was stuck in his flashback. At least with Allison on his side maybe then the two of them could convince Derek that things would be okay. "So, my original theory that all of this was some allergy has been displaced, and now I have no idea why it's still happening."

"It's not an allergy," Derek muttered. "He doesn't have allergies anymore." Stiles held back from rolling his eyes, frustration surging enough to make him put his hands on his hips as a means of keeping his hands still.

"I didn't say it _was_ one, I said that my theory had been-"

"Okay, so then we need to start from the beginning," Allison interjected, much more sure of herself than the girl Stiles had seen five minutes ago.

"Wherever that is." Derek shook his head in annoyance, his sarcasm making stiles grit his teeth.

"Are you on our side here," Stiles asked as he moved his arm around the room to signify everyone but Derek. "Or what? Because Scott's sick and you're sitting there moaning and groaning about stupid little-"

"A week and a half ago," Allison cleared her throat and stated. "He had an attack at Stiles' house.

"2 AM," Stiles added. Derek began to chuckle at the circumstances, implying that the cause of the attack was, in fact, Stiles. "Dude, this is serious."

"Sorry, it's just…anyway, continue."

"The second attack was two days later," Stiles said as he eyed Derek, who was still getting over his laughing fit. "The only one with hives."

"After we did a chemistry lab." Allison's voice made her sound distant, as if she was remembering what Stiles and Derek couldn't.

"Third attack, fifteen minutes ago," Stiles sighed as he squatted beside Scott and watched his back move up and down evenly, hoping that this was the last of them.

"Maybe something from the lab set it off?" Allison proposed.

"But he had an attack days before the lab." Stiles pulled his knees to his chest and leaned his head sideways on them as he watched his friend. "Something has to connect them together, I just don't know what."

"Me," Allison whispered.

"What was that?" Stiles asked.

"Me. I'm the connection. To all three attacks."

"You weren't even there for the first one," Stiles noted, confused.

"But I was with him before, at 11PM after the movies. We…we like to swap clothes," Allison tried to explain, knowing that it sounded weird. "Because we can't, you know, sleep together, so he gives me a sweatshirt or whatever and then after a few days I give it back so that it smells like me."

"Perfume!" Stiles announced and smiled, thinking he'd finally figured it out. "Scott's always been allergic-"

"We all wear perfume and cologne," Derek argued. "And he doesn't have allergies anymore, so-"

"The hives," Allison remarked. "They were on his neck and hands."

"We've already said that," Derek scowled. He seemed to be growing annoyed at everything she or Stiles was offering up as an answer, but Stiles could tell she was up to something.

"You didn't give me a chance to finish," Allison sneered, cocking her head to the side and throwing an irritated glance at Derek. "Anyway," she started, "I put a dot of perfume on my neck and wrists in the morning, and that's where Scott's hives were. It has to be my perfume."

"What brand?" Stiles asked.

"I don't know, my mother got it for me for my birthday. I only started using it two weeks ago, which is why I think-"

"Shit," Derek said as he pulled himself up and walked over to the mess of Allison's stuff scattered on the floor, hands searching around for something he couldn't find.

"The bottle's at home," Allison announced as she got up.

"I'm not looking for the bottle. Did you bring a sweater or something?"

"It's in the hallway," she mentioned as she left the room and brought it back in. Derek ripped it from her hands and sniffed it, pulling away immediately, the garment dropping to on the floor as he fell to his knees with his hands clenched tightly.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Note:

I can't believe that so many people are still enjoying my story! Thank you so much for the favorites, follows, and reviews! I hope you like this chapter; it's nice and long this time!

* * *

The first thing Scott saw when he opened his eyes was Stiles flat on the carpet, belly down, mouth wide open as his head rested on crossed arms. It took him a moment to remember why he was lying next to his best friend, memory of Allison's near-white face and shaky hands holding his cell phone flooding back as his hand brushed against his nebulizer mask on the floor beside him.

"Hey," he nudged Stiles, who slowly opened his eyes and raised his head.

"How're you feeling?" Stiles' voice was groggy and Scott wondered how long they'd been asleep for.

"Like an elephant is sitting on my chest," Scott grimaced and rubbed his chest as he tried to sit up.

"That great, huh?" Stiles sighed.

"Where'd Allison go?"

"Home," Stiles answered, sitting up. Scott's face fell as he leaned up on one arm. "But not because you freaked her out or anything. I mean, you did kind of freak her out, but she got over it pretty quickly. She said she'd text you." _She's upset_, Stiles wanted to say, _because her mother tried to kill you._ But he kept the thought to himself and decided he'd let Allison handle the explanation once she was done figuring things out with her parents.

"Did Derek come?"

"You were out for that? I figured maybe you were pretending to be sleeping so you didn't have to deal with him."

"Yeah, I guess I passed out just as you got here. Practice really wiped me out and I had an attack on my walk home from school. Something was following me, so I tried to shape shift and run into the woods, but it wouldn't happen." Scott began to cough and sat himself fully upright, the tickle in his throat remaining as he wondered if he'd just set off his third attack for the day.

Stiles grabbed a water bottle from Scott's nightstand and unscrewed the cap before wordlessly pushing it towards Scott. After a few short sips, he started coughing again and put the bottle down on the floor. _Here we go, _Stiles thought as he took Scott's inhaler from the nightstand, picked up the water with his free hand, and used his hand with the inhaler to help coax Scott up from the floor, do-si-do style. Scott didn't argue or resist, just went with his best friend as he steered him towards the bathroom, knowing Stiles was going to fill the room with steam to help ease his inflamed airways. He remembered doing this with his mother when he was a child, how Stiles had caught on to it when they were about ten. His weight pulled at the crook of Stiles' arm as they walked across the hallway, a sure sign that Scott was feeling weak.

When they got inside the bathroom, Stiles closed the door and sat Scott against the cool tile wall. He turned the shower on to its hottest setting and closed the curtain, watching the mirror as it began to fog. As Stiles sat down, Scott scooted close to Stiles, lips parted a little, head leaning for his friend's shoulder.

Stiles shook Scott's inhaler, pulled the cap off, and handed it to him as a means of making amends. Scott grabbed it and held it in his hand, index finger absently trying to find its grip on the top of the canister. Stiles studied his friend's face, eyes drawn to the lack of energy Scott was using for his expression. He knew Scott was exhausted from all of the coughing, and the fact that his cheeks were so red confirmed that he really wasn't feeling well at all.

Scott finally took two puffs, eyes still shut, and leaned back again like he didn't want to concentrate on anything but his breathing. Stiles could hear him fighting, trying to take deeper breaths and let the steam in. He did this for a few minutes, the room eventually so cloudy that neither could see the vanity from the floor.

"I guess I've been a little sidetracked lately," Scott eventually admitted. "And I feel pretty bad about it."

"You should," Stiles whispered, chin now on his knees. "But I get it. I know you too well not to. I guess…I guess I just don't particularly like it."

"You mean the Bite?"

"This isn't really about the Bite, Scott." He turned to face his friend, afraid to let their eyes meet. "I knew I was feeling all of this way before the Bite and wolf packs and Allison. I've spent a long time being afraid to admit my feelings; it took me a few months to really understand everything I was going through. And then, when your attacks started up again, I had to revisit a lot of things I'd been running from. I've been sidetracked, too. I distract myself with keeping your wolfihood in check, but that isn't going to work forever. Sooner or later, it's going all going to slip, and I don't want it to be at the wrong moment."

"Stiles, are you coming out to me right now?" Scott wheezed. "Because I don't know if-"

"Dude, no," Stiles laughed, air in the room suddenly lighter. "That's not where I was going with this at all."

"So then what's going on?"

"For a really long time I've been afraid that I was losing you. Like something bad would happen or you'd make another best friend or we'd go off to different colleges and stop talking. And then you got bitten and got really good at lacrosse and got a girlfriend and I was left behind. We've always been a team, Scott, and suddenly I was just Stiles for the first time in ten years. You started to have a life without me. And I got a little jealous."

"So…"

"So, I don't know, I guess my worst fear came true."

"Stiles, I'm right here. Next to you. In my bathroom. You still have me."

"Yeah, and you're pretty much fighting to breathe, which is my fault because I didn't figure out why you were having attacks again." _Until about an hour and a half ago._

"I'm never going to be able to convince you," Scott said breathlessly, "that you're good for me."

"Nope. Never," Stiles smiled and shook his head. "By the way, I'm still mad at you."

"Yeah, right." Scott rolled his eyes.

"I'm never going to be able to convince you that I can be serious." Stiles laughed, both knowing that some kind of truce had been made due to both boys' exhaustion.

"When I was out before," Scott breathed. "I was thinking about when I was thirteen and I had that really bad attack." He paused. "And how there's a whole week of my life that I don't remember. Because of the ventilator. But sometimes I get these moments. Like you say something and I have this déjà vu, this really nagging feeling that I've heard you say something before." Stiles could hear the wheezy pull in Scott's inhales and let him catch his breath before he continued. "And I heard you," Scott swallowed. "On the phone when we were thirteen. And in the nurse's office the other day. And when you whispered to me earlier, before you shut the nebulizer off. You said _I'm here and I'm not going anywhere._"

"You…you heard me on the phone? When you were in the hospital?" Stiles' voice made him sound small, eyes finally looking up and searching for Scott's.

"I remember your voice, but I don't remember the actual call."

"I didn't know if I'd ever see you again." The only sound in the room was the pressure of the water coming from the showerhead, humidity in the room making it almost too hard for both of them to breathe. Stiles leaned over and shut the water off, the two boys' shoulders and knees touching as Stiles sat back down and leaned his head against Scott. "It's true, what I said all those times. About not going anywhere."

"I know."

"Then why'd you flip out on me in the parking lot today?"

"Because of a million reasons that I'm too tired to explain right now," Scott sighed and leaned his head on Stiles'. "But you didn't deserve it at all, and I'm sorry."

"S'okay," Stiles whispered, not even caring about the argument anymore, both pairs of eyelids falling as the boys were lulled to sleep by the steady drip drop of the bathtub faucet.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: I am so sorry for the long wait! I have been so busy with school and work that I've barely had a moment to myself. Thank you for your continued support and reviews! :D

* * *

"Hey, Dad. Scott's had another attack, so I'm gonna stay the night." Stiles didn't have to ask; he knew his father would hear his concern in the way he was trying to be quiet on the phone and understand. "Yeah, he's okay, but his mom has the night shift and I don't want to leave him alone."

"Alright, call me if you need me."

"Yup," Stiles smiled, whispering, "Love you," as an after-thought, thinking his father had already ended the call.

"Love you, too," his father replied, call disconnecting as Stiles' screen went back to his home screen. He imagined his father with a sideways smile, thankful that he'd waited a few extra seconds before hanging up and slipping his phone into his uniform pants. _At least he's got someone to look after him too_, Stiles could see him thinking as he dragged the keys off the kitchen counter, still smirking to himself as he headed out for his shift.

"I'm starving, but I'm too exhausted to eat," Scott mumbled into the comforter as he lay sprawled out on his bed.

"You need to eat to take your pills, man." Stiles plopped himself next to Scott on the bed and opened the nightstand drawer, pulling out two bottles of pills and holding them in his hands.

"They just make me hungrier," Scott groaned.

"Still need to eat."

"And grumpier."

"I'll make the usual: Grilled cheese and tomato soup."

"No pills tonight."

"Yes pills tonight," Stiles stated, shaking the bottles.

"You don't take yours, so why should I take mine?"

"Because yours keep you breathing and mine…mine just make me feel like a walking zombie."

"What's wrong with being a zombie?" Scott joked, face still against the comforter.

"Scott, I'm not sure I can watch you have another attack right now without completely losing it," Stiles admitted as he looked at the orange bottles in his hand and bit his lip, voice low. "At least take the prednisone? For me?"

Scott lifted his head and leaned on his crossed arms, eyes staring straight at his headboard. "The steroids make me feel like I'm being dragged into a bottomless pit of depression that I'm never going to be able to climb out of."  
"But they help you breathe."

"And they make me want to sit in front of the refrigerator and eat until I pass out."

"And they calm the inflammation in your airways so that you can breathe better so that more oxygen can travel through your body and you don't die," Stiles said as his hands animated the process in front of Scott. "So I say that not dying would be the pro that overshadows every con you just listed."

"How'd you know they did that?"

"Hmm?"

"How do you know how prednisone works?" Scott asked, finally looking over at Stiles, who felt his cheeks turning red, pulse quickening so intensely that he could feel it in his face.

"Um," his voice cracked as he looked down at the bottles again. And even though he knew Scott of all people wouldn't care, Stiles still felt like he was about to tell someone something he always thought no one would ever know. "Back in like, sixth grade, when you had pneumonia, I read you pill bottles and looked the names up online." He swallowed, cheeks still burning. "Because I wanted to be able to help you when you got sick. It was right after my Mom relapsed again. When my anxiety really started taking off."

"You're acting like I'm supposed to be freaked out that you cared enough to look all of that up," Scott said, feeling the tightness in his chest start to return. He coughed once and rubbed his chest, feeling another set coming but forcing it away by holding his breath.

"Come one," Stiles motioned towards the door with the pill bottles. "Let's go downstairs. I'll make soup and grilled cheese. You can sit on the couch and take your pills and relax." Scott groaned, but agreed, peeling himself from the comforter and dragging his feet as the two entered the hallway.

"You didn't have to stay, you know," Scott said as they descended the stairs.

"Yes, I did," Stiles smiled, watching as his friend took the stairs one at a time in front of him, breathing heavy.

"Thanks," he wheezed. Stiles nodded. "Anyway, I think Allison hates me now."

"Dude, she doesn't hate you. She's just…dealing with a lot right now." _Like her mother trying to kill her boyfriend and make it look like a complete accident. _

"You think she'll text me?"

"Just give her some time."

"Yeah," Scott laughed, sentences choppy due to his impaired breathing. "So she can start going…after other boys who don't lie…and have s-severe asthma attacks in front of her…and keep things from her?"

"Just wait for her to text you, explain things."

"I feel like you're talking code or something. And I…can't understand it…because my brain is fried," Scott mumbled breathlessly.

"Just forget it."

"Well, no, I can't just forget it now that it's obvious that you…and maybe even Allison…know something that I don't."

"And Derek," Stiles whispered, not wanting to go _there_ but knowing that he had to now that'd he'd opened his mouth.

"What?"

"You were out for a while, Scott. Things got kind of….heated."

"Stiles," Scott warned as he reached the bottom of the stairs, turning his body to face and confront his best friend.

"You might want to sit down for this," Stiles advised Scott, who lifted his eyebrows in disbelief. "I'm being 100% serious, man. You're gonna wanna sit down."

"So is this the part where you tell me you and Allison…kissed while I was out cold?" Scott laughed and took a few breaths. "Or was Derek the lucky one?"

"Food," Stiles said as a means of stalling. "You should eat first."

"Aw, come on, Stiles. You can't just…just leave me hanging."

"Yes, my mouth-breathing werewolf friend, I can."

"What happened to _I'm being 100% serious?_"

"You can barely get a sentence out right now, so I'm going to put you up on the couch and make you food and have you take your pills first. Just…just trust me on this one, okay?" Stiles' voice dimmed during the last sentence, eyes meeting Scott's with all of the seriousness he could muster.

Scott nodded in agreement and let Stiles tuck him in with a blanket on the couch, pulling his phone from his pocket when he finally heard the banging of pots and pans coming from the kitchen.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** I haven't updated this story in about a month and for that I apologize! Between Hurricane Sandy, grad school, work, and getting things together for Thanksgiving, I have been ridiculously busy. Hope everyone had a happy and healthy holiday! Thanks for sticking with my story for so long! Your reviews mean the world to me. :)

* * *

Stiles dished grilled cheeses on to two separate plates, adding a small bowl of piping hot tomato soup and a spoon to each. "Dinner is served," he joked in a British accent as he brought the food into the living room where Scott was sitting hunched over on the couch, wheezing noticeably with every shaky inhale.

"Scott?" Stiles asked nervously, sliding the plates onto the coffee table so that he could be beside beside his friend. "Okay, let's sit you up. Breathe, man. I'm gonna go get your inhaler."

"S-she…she said h-her mom…tried to k-kill me," Scott managed before going straight into a coughing fit. Stiles noticed that Scott had his phone in his hand and gritted his teeth, thinking, _You couldn't wait, could you?!_ "Need a treatment," Scott whimpered as he rubbed at his chest with his free hand.

"Dude," Stiles said, choosing to ignore the fact that Scott and Allison were in the middle of a very important texting conversation and instead focusing on Scott's impaired breathing. "You just had one, like, two hours ago. Your mom always says to wait-"

"A-albuterol," Scott begged as he matched his eyes with Stiles', coughing intensifying to the point where he could barely catch his breath.

"Okay, okay. No need to be dramatic," Stiles joked as he ran upstairs to grab the nebulizer and some medication, heart racing as he worked to get everything set up.

"S-she tried to…to kill m-me," Scott choked out between coughs, still shocked at the information. "A-and you k-kept it…from me?"

"Don't worry about that right now," Stiles soothed as he put the mask over Scott's face for the second time that day and sat down on the couch, pulling his friend's head against his chest to calm him down. "Just breathe," he directed, exhaustion building as he gently rubbed Scott's shoulder. He could hear Scott's breaths hitching the same way they had in the locker room under the shower, but this time it was much worse, his whole body putting forth effort for him to get even one tiny breath.

"W-what if…she never t-talks-" Scott wheezed, Stiles interrupting.

"Shhh," Stiles soothed, feeling tears prick his eyes when he couldn't hold them back any longer. "Allison's mother can't hurt you anymore," he assured him. "And last I checked, her dad is on our side, so I think you'll be okay as long as she stops using that perfume."

"S-she didn't k-know," he went on.

"How could she have?" Stiles asked, adjusting Scott against him so that the two were more comfortable. "Let's get you breathing again and then we can worry about what to do next, okay?" Stiles said softly, pulling Scott's phone from his hands and tossing it lightly on the coffee table. He could feel his best friend's body relax against him as the medicine worked to open his airways, listened as his breathing grew quieter, easier.

Stiles wasn't usually one to cry, but he felt the tears fall one by one anyway, the acknowledgment that Scott's attacks weren't, in fact, stopping or lessening in severity making him wish he could trade places with his best friend for what had to be the millionth time. And he'd slept before after Allison and Derek had left, but he was still tired. So tired, in fact, that he'd nearly burned the house down while making dinner because he'd almost nodded off as he was stirring the soup. He knew it was the result of too little Adderall, that the coffee he'd downed earlier to keep him wired was making him crash. Hard. So he turned his head away from Scott's and tried to stop to tears, thinking that if he could just keep those at bay that the anxiety rising up from his stomach would somehow stop.

Stiles felt his eyelids closing despite the noise from the nebulizer, exhaustion from the day's events taking over as he let his head rest comfortably against the crook between the back of the couch and it's arm. _I will not let my anxiety take over_, he thought to himself as he locked his jaw and tried to relax his own breathing. _In, out_._ Just like you always tell Scott._

The cellphone vibrated on the coffee table and Stiles let himself look at the message from Allison on the screen: _I didn't mean for any of this to happen._ It distracted him long enough to keep the tears from continuing and the sight of Scott's prednisone, still not taken, reminded him that food, and meds, would do Scott, and him, some good. He leaned over, careful not to move Scott too much, and swiped the orange pill bottle from the table.

"These will help," Stiles advised as he popped the bottle open and helped Scott steady the glass of water in his hands. He held the nebulizer mask while Scott downed two of the small, bitter tasting tablets. "Is it easing up?"

Scott nodded and put the mask back on, finding his place against Stiles' chest as he began to relax again.

"I'll just warm the food up later," he yawned, letting his eyelids fall in defeat.

"Do you believe in soul mates?" Scott whispered some time later after he pulled the dry nebulizer mask off his face, voice husky from the medicine.

"Hmm?" Stiles mumbled in his half-asleep state, just realizing that Scott was comfortably curled against him and that the nebulizer was off.

"You know, without the sex part?" Scott had thrown the question out there with the hope that he knew Stiles well enough for the question to be asked.

Stiles stirred slightly at the word sex. "You're talking about us?"

"Yeah," Scott laughed nervously, thinking that maybe Stiles wasn't comfortable with the conversation. "Never mind. Forget I brought it up."

"No, it's okay," he said, opening his eyes wide to wake himself up. "I get where you're coming from."

"You're just saying that," Scott groaned, turning away from Stiles, angry with himself for thinking that this was the right time for this conversation.

"No, I'm not. I'm just trying to wake up is all." Stiles sat up a little, arm on Scott's shoulder as a means of letting him know he was listening.

"It's just that...sometimes I think about how I wouldn't be here without you. How you keep me breathing, make me want to be alive. I've always felt like you knew me better than I knew myself. Like, you could always tell when my breathing was bad when we were little. Before I would even say anything you knew I wasn't okay."

"I know what you mean, about the 'you know me better than I know myself' stuff," Stiles smiled, turning Scott towards him so that their foreheads were touching. "I feel the same way. You always know when I'm thinking about my mom, or when things are weird between my dad and I."

"Is it okay if we just cuddle? I could really use a good one right now. But if it's too weird…" Scott let his voice trail off, hoping Stiles would agree.

Stiles just smiled at the thought before his brain took over and pulled him asleep, a blanket secured around the two of them by Scott as they curled against each other.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note:** I'm thinking a few more chapters to wrap this one up and then probably starting a new one. And I'm keeping things bromancey, just had them do a little cuddling in the last one as friends who needed each other. Thanks again for sticking with me! My graduate thesis is finally done and now I have lots of time to write! The reviews are lovely. Keep them coming! :)

* * *

Scott's phone began to vibrate and skitter across the coffee table, the sound loud enough to wake both him and Stiles, Allison's name illuminated on the screen.

"You ready to talk to her?" Stiles asked as he watched Scott blinking his eyes repeatedly to wake himself up.

"Yeah. I think she needs someone to talk to," he said groggily, pulling the phone from the table but waiting to answer the call. "I promised we'd talk about it."

"Okay. I'm gonna go…in the kitchen," Stiles said, leaving before this grew heated between Allison and Scott. He pulled a box of Bagel Bites from the freezer and plopped them onto a plate before feeding them into the microwave. Scott was off of the phone and in the kitchen barely a minute later, finding a seat at the table and putting his head on his crossed arms.

"She's coming over," he mumbled, "and I'm shaking and starving thanks to all of that medication."

"Well, you're breathing, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but I feel like absolute crap."

"I'm making Bagel Bites," Stiles smiled and pointed to the microwave. "Your favorite!"

"Can you get my inhaler?" he asked, the defeat in his voice enough to throw Stiles out of his good mood.

"Yeah, man," he sighed, remembering all of the times he'd stayed home from school with Scott when he'd been sick. How they'd watch movies and make snacks to satisfy Scott's prednisone cravings. He wished they could go back to that, the fun they had despite the ever-present wheeze that was sometimes so loud it overshadowed the movie.

Returning with the medication, he sat beside Scott, letting the microwave beep to signal that the food was ready. "Lungs still tight?" he asked.

"No. Just want it on me. I'm tired of feeling panicked for air." Scott rushed his hands back and forth through his air to wake himself further before sighing heavily. "Food?" he asked.

"Do you know what you're going to say to her?" Stiles asked as he got the plate from the microwave and put it in front of them.

"I don't even know. I just need to eat something and lay down. That's literally all I can think about right now."

"You want me to leave?" Stiles expected a quick answer, but Scott stalled, shoving an entire mini bagel into his mouth and keeping his eyes from him. "Okay, I take that as a _yes_." He'd tried to keep the disappointment from enter his voice, but it came anyway, his urge to eat suddenly gone.

"I don't want you to leave, Stiles," Scott sighed again. He banged his fists on the table. "I just…ugh! Right now I don't know what I want! These stupid steroids. I didn't even take them that long ago and I already feel like my emotions are spiraling out of control."

"So you want me to stay so that I can keep you from lashing out at Allison?" Stiles asked, hating himself for even proposing the question.

"No, that's not why I want you to stay."

"Why do I always feel like I'm too busy taking care of everyone else for anyone to notice when I need someone back?" Stiles couldn't even stop the tears so he just let them fall and let Scott see them.

"Stiles," Scott's voice softened as he put his hand on his shoulder. "I know I haven't been the most available person lately. I'm sorry. Things have been a little…wild. I guess I figured that since you weren't having panic attacks, things were okay."

"But that's the thing," Stiles chuckled through his tears. "I'm still having my panic attacks; they're just happening when I'm all by myself. In the shower, when I'm in bed trying to fall asleep. They just follow me everywhere I go, wait for me to be alone."

"Why didn't you say anything?!"

"Because you're too busy trying to breathe and my dad is too busy at work. And I just don't want to bother anyone with my craziness," he whispered.

"You're not crazy, Stiles. Lots of people have anxiety. It's a real thing and you shouldn't be ashamed of it."

"But I am ashamed of it!" he cried, fresh tears falling. "I'm supposed to go and see this doctor. This guy who is just going to prescribe me pills and ask me how I feel about things every single time I go. And that's the thing! I don't _want_ to talk about my mother. I don't _want _to talk about all of these emotions because I don't know what they _are_. I don't know if I'm happy or upset or optimistic or just distracting myself from everything that I'm afraid to feel. All I know is that I'm tired and the only thing keeping me going is making sure that you're okay."

"Come here," Scott said, pulling his best friend into a tight hug as he cried, Stiles' body shaking with sobs as the two stood in the middle of the kitchen. "I'm sorry I was too busy to notice," Scott sniffled. "I promise I won't let it happen again." They stood there like that for just a little while longer, the contact between them causing their hearts to begin beating in sync, both taking shaky inhales as they parted and pulled themselves together. "I'm sorry," Scott whispered.

"It's fine. Really," Stiles replied before grabbing the plate and nodding towards the stairs, a small smile coming across his lips as he slowly led Scott up the stairs so that the two could sit and watch the start of a movie while devouring Bagel Bites before Allison arrived.

* * *

"Scott," Allison said in the doorway of his bedroom, eyes red and puffy from crying. Stiles had gotten up to go to the bathroom. "I-I didn't know, I swear. I'm so sorry." She was shaking her head, knuckles under her chin as she apologized.

"Come here," he said as he pulled the covers off of his legs and scooted to the edge. Allison sat beside him, sniffling to keep herself from breaking down again.

"I really didn't know," she admitted mid-cry, hands wringing beneath her chin as she hunched over.

"Shh," Scott soothed as he put her head on her shoulder and pulled one of her hands into his. "I know. I'm not angry at you. Or your mom. It's okay, Allison."

"It's weird because I hate and miss her at the same time. I mean, she's my mom," Allison explained, half-smiling but also feeling like there was a lump in her throat. She wiped her face and sniffled. "My relationship with her has always been a little weird. I guess I've always been closer to my dad. But this, with the perfume. I just…how am I supposed to forgive her for that?" The tears started up again, but she refused to wipe them away. "How do I just forgive her for lying to me about who I really am? And then leaving me to pick up all of these pieces on my own?"

Scott pulled his lips inward, afraid to hug Allison because he thought maybe she was mad at him for keeping so many secrets himself. As he watched her fold over herself, sobs becoming quiet, he realized she needed him. So he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his body, grip tight like his mother always used to do when he was in the middle of a tantrum as a child. There was just something about being that close to someone that had always made him feel less alone and a lot more understood, which was exactly what Allison needed at that very moment.

"S-she just left me," Allison sobbed, body shuddering with each one she let out. "A-and then she left me with that perfume," she continued, shaking her head. "So that I could _kill_ you. W-what kind of mother d-does that?"

"I _know_ she loved you, Allison, more than anything else. Sometimes people do things because they think it's the best for someone they love. Maybe that's what she was doing when she decided she had to go, after she got the Bite and realized that she'd become the one thing she'd been trying to protect you from since the moment she knew you were going to be born." Scott wasn't sure where that had come from, but he'd went with it because it had felt like the right thing to say.

"I just wish that none of this had ever happened," she cried, her tears going through Scott's shirt as she buried her face against his chest. "I hate this. I hate all of this."

"It's all over now," Scott assured her, rubbing her back as he let the vice around her go a little slack. Allison calmed in his arms, sniffling the only remnants of her outburst left as the two hugged closely for a few wordless minutes.

Stiles appeared in the doorway, waiting for Scott's eyes to catch his to let him know whether or not it was a good time. Scott shook his head and nodded to Allison, to which Stiles backed himself up and snuck down the stairs.

"She can't hurt us anymore," he whispered, letting Allison lean against his shoulder as the two sat and calmed down, the anxiety of the past few weeks' events finally easing up.


End file.
